MY'  DEVON :  YE  AR 

BY*  EDEN  s  PHILLPOTTS 


MY    DEVON   YEAR 


GATES  OF  THE  MORNING 


MY    DEVON    YEAR 


BY 

EDEN   PHILLPOTTS 


"l  AM  IN  HARMONY  WITH  ALL  THAT  IS  A  PART  OF  THY  HARMONY,  GREAT 
UNIVERSE.  FOR  ME  NOTHING  IS  EARLY  AND  NOTHING  LATE  THAT  IS  SEASONABLE 
TO  THEE.  ALL  ARE  FRUITS  FOR  ME  THAT  THY  SEASONS  BRING,  O  NATURE!  SINCE 
FROM  THEE,  IN  THEE,  AND  UNTO  THEE  ARE  ALL  THINGS"  MARCUS  AURELIUS 

"i  TRUST  IN  THE 'UNBORN,  NOT  IN  THE  DEAD"  "THE  MASTER-BUILDER" 


WITH   THIRTY-EIGHT   ILLUSTRATIONS 


NEW  YORK 

THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 
1903 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

THE  SECRET  OF  THE   DAY  .  ...  I 

WINTER  BOUGHS              .  .  IO 

THE  WHITE  LIGHT          .  .  .  1 6 

"THE  OLD  PATHS"          .  .  ...  21 

LORDS  AND  LADIES         .  .  ...  27 

THE  SCYTHE-BEARER       .  .  .          .       .  31 

GREEN   FLOWERS                   .  .  ...  36 

"KING  O'   BUDS"                    .  .  ...  42 

GRANITE  AND  SORREL       .  .  ...  46 

BUD-BREAK            .                     .  .  ...  53 

MARBLE  CLIFFS  .                     .  .  ...  58 

GATES  OF  THE   MORNING  .  .  63 

WHERE  HERRICK  LIES       .  .  ...  69 

OKEMENT               .                    .  .  .-.  75 

HARMONY   IN   BLUE              .  .  79 

PROMISE                 .                    .  .  ...  83 

THE  OLD  CANAL                    .  .  ...  90 

A  WHITE  ROCK-ROSE          .  .  .               •          •  97 

YOUNG  TAMAR    .                     .  .  .                .           .  IO2 

THE  LAKE   BY  THE  SEA     .  .  .               .          .  106 

THE  LAP  OF  PROSERPINE  (l)             .  .               .          .  1 13 

THE  LAP  OF  PROSERPINE  (2)             .  .                          .  126 

SAND-DUNES         .                     .  .  .                           .  139 

THE   HOME  OF  THE   WEST  WIND     .  .                          .  145 

DART    .                    .                    .  .  ...  152 


271458 


vi  CONTENTS 

PACK 

HARVEST                 .                    .  .  .158 

"THE  OLD  MEN"                   .  .  .               .           .  l6l 

EVENING  LIGHT              .  .  .          .       .  167 

A  SUMMER-CLAD  HEATH  .  ...  172 

THE  COMBES      .  .       .  178 

WISTMAN'S  WOOD            .  .  .          .       .  184 

SWAN  SONG       .             .  .  .       .  190 

PEAT     .                    .                    .  .  ...  196 

POMORUM   PATRONA            .  .  .           .  2OI 

HARMONY  IN  GOLD              .  .  .                          .  207 

HARMONY   IN  SILVER          .  .  .               .           .  213 

THE  CROWN  ON  THE  HILL  .  .               .           .  217 

THE  MASTER-BUILDER  222 


LIST   OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 


GATES  OF  THE  MORNING  .  .  .    Frontispiece 

THE  SECRET  OF  THE   DAY  .  .  ...  I 

WINTER   BOUGHS            .  .  .  IO 

THE   WHITE   LIGHT       .  .  .  l6 

"THE  OLD  PATHS"    .  .  .  ...  21 

LORDS  AND  LADIES    .  .  .  ...  27 

THE  SCYTHE-BEARER  .  .  .  ...  31 

GREEN  FLOWERS        .  .  .  ...  36 

"KING  o'  BUDS"       .  .  .  ...  42 

GRANITE  AND  SORREL  .  .  ...  46 

BUD-BREAK                         .  .  .  •                 •            •  S3 

MARBLE   CLIFFS              .  .  .  ...  58 

WHERE   HERRICK   LIES  .  .  ...  69 

OKEMENT      .                     .  .  .  75 

HARMONY   IN   BLUE      .  .  .  •                •           •  79 

PROMISE         .                     .  .  .  ...  83 

THE  OLD   CANAL            .  .  .  ...  90 

A  WHITE   ROCK-ROSE  .  .  .  ...  97 

YOUNG   TAMAR                .  .  .  ...  IO2 

THE  LAKE   BY  THE  SEA  .  .  ...  Io6 

THE   LAP  OF   PROSERPINE  (l)  .  .  .                .           .  113 

THE  LAP  OF   PROSERPINE  (2)  .  .  .                .  126 

SAND-DUN-ES                      .  .  .  ...  139 

THE   HOME  OF   THE   WEST   WIND  .  .                            .  145 

DART                .                     .  .  .  ...  152 

HARVEST        .                     .  .  .  ...  158. 

"THE  OLD  MEN"       .  .  .  161 


viii           LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

EVENING  LIGHT             .  .  .                                    .           .  167 

A  SUMMER-CLAD  HEATH  .  .  ...  172 

THE  COMBES              .  .  .  ...  178 

WISTMAN'S  WOOD       .  .  .  ...  184 

SWAN  SONG  .                    .  .  .  ...  190 

PEAT                .                    .  .  .  ...  196 

POMORUM    PATRON A     .  .  .  .                .            .  2OI 

HARMONY    IN   GOLD      .  .  .  ...  207 

HARMONY  IN  SILVER  .  .  .  .                           .  213 

THE  CROWN  ON  THE  HILL  .  .  ...  217 

THE   MASTER-BUILDER  222 


THE   SECRET  OF  THE  DAY 


MY    DEVON    YEAR 


THE    SECRET    OF    THE    DAY 

MONG  the  pomps  and  pageants  of  the 
seasons,  revealed  by  nearly  every  sun  that 
rises,  painted  upon  the  clouds,  mirrored  in 
the  waters,  and  wrought  into  the  fabric  of 
the  earth,  shall  be  found  a  reflection  or  image  of 
human  emotions  :  the  Secret  of  the  Day,  to  be  won 
from  harmonies  or  discords  of  natural  things.  And  a 
pilgrimage  to  seek  this  affinity  is  among  the  deepest 
joys  your  country  dweller  knows.  On  such  high 
days  a  man  may  wander  forth  into  the  aisles  of  the 
eternal  temple  and  strive  to  win  that  message  proper 
to  the  time.  From  glare  of  unshadowed  noons  it  can 
take  shape,  or  from  the  twilight  hour ;  from  dayspring 
on  the  heather  and  granite,  or  from  still  moments 
ruled  by  the  moon ;  from  busy  hamlets  and  orchard 
lands,  or  the  murmuring  of  bees  in  remote  moors  ; 
from  the  whisper  of  rains  and  rivers ;  from  the  songs 
of  birds,  or  the  silences  of  ancient  forests  and  unfretted 
wastes. 
B 


2  MY  DEVON   YEAR 

Many  a  morning  brings  with  it  some  echo  of 
human  emotion  so  obvious  that  the  analogy  strikes 
instant,  almost  unconscious,  acknowledgment  from  all, 
and  mankind  sighs  before  a  leaden  dawn,  or  lifts  his 
heart  with  gladness  to  a  sunrise  of  promise  ;  but  more 
often  the  diurnal  progress  is  intermixed  with  subtler 
manifestations,  and  the  brooding  guardian-spirit  of 
each  day  must  be  sought  for  with  a  measure  of  rever- 
ence and  care.  Then  if  your  mind  is  open  to  such 
forces,  if  the  key  of  your  heart  is  surrendered  to 
natural  influences,  like  a  dream  the  secret  of  the 
day  shall  grow  upon  you,  and  there  shall  develop  a 
sort  of  inner  certainty  spun  of  the  sky  and  the  things 
under  the  sky.  Be  the  day  all  blue  ;  be  the  day  all 
gold ;  be  the  day  sad  and  sobbing — a  theatre  of  mad 
winds,  that  shake  the  roof -tree  and  smite  things 
animate  and  inanimate  to  destruction — yet  secrets  it 
surely  holds ;  and  the  brain  of  man  shall  win  them, 
shall  weave  a  definite  subjective  inspiration  from  the 
objective  revelation  of  the  hour.  Thus  Nature  crowns 
suit  and  service  at  her  courts,  sometimes  with  a  sort 
of  lyric  joy  that  lifts  the  heart  upon  its  ebb  and  flow 
before  her  glories,  sometimes  with  full  measure  of 
grief  at  her  failure,  and  not  seldom  with  gravity  when 
we  behold  the  eternal  destruction  of  her  unfit. 

I  doubt  if  there  exists  a  passion  or  shade  of  passion, 
a  prompting,  a  repulsion,  or  a  great  desire  common  to 
man,  that  some  day  shall  not  seem  to  mirror,  though 
the  closeness  or  subtlety  of  the  likeness  must  depend 
upon  the  mind  that  seeks  and  finds  it.  Such  light 


THE   SECRET   OF  THE   DAY  3 

flashes  like  a  diamond — to  one  all  purple,  to  another 
red  as  dawn,  to  a  third  the  nameless  colour  of  the 
deep  sea,  to  a  rare  spirit,  here  and  there,  the  compo- 
site ray  of  truth  itself. 

And  thus  you  shall  find,  set  largely  forth  through 
the  annual  circle  of  the  sun's  work  upon  this  planet, 
a  gamut  of  human  moods — from  Love,  the  Mother's 
primal  bribe  to  win  us  like  children,  with  a  toy — 
along  endless  avenues  of  light  and  shade,  by  ways 
and  through  hours  of  mingled  cloud  and  sunshine. 
All  passive  states  of  anticipation,  expectancy,  and 
awful  dread  are  imaged  here  in  their  range  of  suffer- 
ing, endurance,  suspense,  rest,  sleep,  or  death ;  and 
activity  also,  in  its  countless  manifestations,  is  most 
closely  indicated.  Here  a  day  tells  the  tale  of  hope 
rekindled,  of  achievement  crowned ;  here  the  unnum- 
bered states  of  the  mind — toil,  tribulation,  or  opposition 
— are  likewise  painted  upon  the  earth  by  the  seasons, 
by  the  havoc  wrought  of  lightnings,  the  magic  of 
winter  rains  and  summer  suns,  the  teeth  of  the  frost, 
and  the  eternal  attrition  of  the  tides.  To-day  a  dozen 
facts,  huddled  together  under  the  howling  of  the  West 
wind,  shall  simultaneously  cry  and  shout  their  message 
like  the  trumpets  of  an  army;  to-morrow  only  the 
burden  of  a  robin's  song  sets  free  the  secret ;  or  a 
moonrise ;  or  the  sudden,  far-flung,  fast-fading  flame 
of  the  afterglow.  Content,  the  master-jewel  of  human 
glory,  I  have  found  blazoned  upon  no  opulent  triumph 
of  Nature,  but  rather  within  some  still,  grey,  twilight 
hour,  between  the  passing  of  the  harvest  season  and 


4  MY  DEVON   YEAR 

the  oncoming  of  Winter.  On  such  a  day  content 
comes  whispered  by  a  falling  leaf,  or  is  written  upon 
the  fringes  of  sequestered  woods,  where  the  birch, 
before  bud-break,  dwells  in  an  amethystine  mist  about 
her  silver  stem. 

The  winds,  indeed,  often  and  at  all  times  in  the 
yearly  pilgrimage  utter  aloud  the  secret  of  the  day, 
and  so  reveal  the  tale  they  have  gleaned  from  earth 
and  sky  and  the  cloudland  of  eternal  change  between 
them.  Naked,  winter  boughs  cry  it  painfully;  and 
sometimes,  in  the  upper  chambers  of  the  air,  serene 
and  calm  above  mundane  storm,  the  high  clouds  wheel 
and  turn  their  chariots  of  light  into  the  word  one 
went  to  seek.  The  sea  holds  the  secret,  and  its 
messages  ride  upon  stinging  spindrifts,  torn  from 
off  the  waves ;  roll  in  organ  songs  along  lonely 
beaches  ;  lull  their  burden  to  mere  moaning  upon  the 
blind  cliff-faces.  With  many  a  kiss  the  sea  will 
whisper  it,  will  write  it  hugely  above  her  glimmering 
ocean -facing  ridges  of  rock,  will  thunder  it  in  her 
caverns,  will  spout  it  from  the  nostrils  of  her  leviathans, 
will  sing  it  in  sunshine  on  a  million  simultaneous 
dimples,  will  cry  it  where  the  sea-bird  presses  his 
breast  against  the  wind,  and  slants  upwards  or  down- 
wards upon  that  invisible  inclined  plane. 

Nor  does  the  obvious  often  intrude  upon  these 
wanderings  after  buried  treasure.  The  wind  may 
howl  along  its  winter  ways  in  the  tree-tops,  yet  wake 
no  sense  of  sinister  power,  of  storms  or  sorrows ;  it 
may  utter  music  proper  to  the  season  of  opening 


THE   SECRET   OF   THE   DAY  5 

flowers  and  waking  life,  where  golden  green  encano- 
pies  young  Spring,  and  yet  paint  no  superficial  picture 
of  happiness.  For  I  have  known  a  stormy  hour  that 
held  pure  peace,  an  hour  wherein  the  very  bending, 
beaten  boughs,  that  leapt  back  each  to  its  place 
between  the  blasts,  heartened  a  man  ;  while,  con- 
versely, out  of  moments  between  vernal  showers, 
when  every  thrush  has  been  a  prophet  of  good, 
and  love  was  lord,  the  secret  of  the  day  was  strife. 

For  out  of  the  hum  of  the  insects'  countless 
gauzes,  the  drone  of  the  bees  at  pollen  and  honey, 
and  the  gleam  and  flash  of  all  manner  of  wings  that 
jewel  the  soft  green  shadows  of  the  Spring,  there  may 
spread  chill  sense  of  primal  feud  again,  of  great 
battle,  of  hungry  hosts  still  in  the  egg,  of  an  infinity 
of  beautiful  banners  spread  under  June  sunshine  only 
to  hide  the  mortal  war  below.  Such  a  truth  stabs  one. 
A  single  riddled,  tattered  leaf  will  tell  it ;  or  a  dead 
nursling,  fallen  from  the  bough  untimely ;  or  the  wail 
of  grief  outpoured  by  a  bird  who,  returning  to  her 
nest,  finds  a  red  weasel  there.  Some  of  these  things 
supply  a  tonic  to  reason.  They  do  not  harden  the 
heart,  but  sober  it. 

And  days  there  are  beyond  all  probing — days  and 
nights  that  reserve  or  deny  their  secret  and  leave  the 
searcher  neither  happy  nor  sad,  but  full  of  wonder. 
I  have  seen  the  world  under  phases  of  which  I  formed 
no  part  and  could  form  no  part.  There  has  been  a 
great  gulf  fixed  between  my  Mother  Earth  and  me. 
Yesterday  I  was  one  with  the  heath  and  the  stone, 


6  MY  DEVON   YEAR 

partook  of  their  natures,  reposed  with  them  under  the 
sun,  and  felt  a  child  in  the  eye  of  the  grey  granite,  a 
hoary  sage  seen  by  the  little  vanishing  blossoms;  to-day 
granite  and  heather  are  removed  from  me  and  know 
me  no  more.  There  is  a  spirit  abroad,  and  they 
are  uplifted ;  but  I  am  as  I  was  yesterday,  and  see 
nothing. 

The  poets  have  stood  upon  the  fringes  of  these 
trances,  and  felt  them.  More  they  have  not  done — for 
who  may  find  words  for  states  beyond  human  under- 
standing ?  Who  can  set  down  the  secret  spirit  of 
those  days  when  the  veil  is  drawn  between  us  and  the 
familiar  forests  and  high  hills?  They  are  caught 
away  from  us  at  such  times,  rapt  away  into  mystery 
deeper  than  our  hearts  can  fathom  or  our  senses  read. 
There  are  no  words  for  these  moments,  and  the 
greatest  have  but  set  forth  negative  pictures  of  them, 
for  to  say  what  they  are  not  is  only  less  difficult  than 
to  say  what  they  are.  To  say  what  they  are  not  may 
be  possible  to  a  poet ;  to  say  what  they  are  is  im- 
possible to  all  men,  for  such  ineffable  moments  are 
beyond  words  and  above  ideas.  From  the  wise  and 
prudent  most  surely  are  they  concealed  ;  to  the  spirit 
of  the  child  they  may  by  possibility  appear  when, 
wandering  alone,  unencumbered  with  mental  trash,  he 
still  vivifies  each  blade  and  bud  as  the  use  of  children 
is  ;  still  sees  little,  conscious  lives,  full  as  his  own,  in 
each  bird  and  hurrying  mouse,  each  flower  and  fern  ; 
still  protests  with  an  active,  infantile  indignation  at  the 
destruction  of  the  worst  equipped ;  still  unconsciously 


THE   SECRET   OF   THE   DAY  7 

hates  Death  with  all  his  small  heart,  no  matter  what 
stroke  of  the  angel  challenges  him. 

Keats  saw  that  magic  hour  under  the  moon ; 
Browning,  at  eventide.  The  first  poet  touches  such 
a  supreme  moment  when  he  tells  how  : 

"Tall  oaks,  branch-charmed  by  the  earnest  stars, 
Dream,  and  so  dream  all  night  without  a  stir, 
Save  from  one  gradual,  solitary  gust, 
Which  comes  upon  the  silence,  and  dies  off 
As  if  the  ebbing  air  had  but  one  wave." 

There  is  no  more  that  word  of  man  can  say,  for 
at  such  a  time  the  visible  world  passes  clean  out  of 
comprehension,  enters  upon  a  conjuncture  or  crisis, 
for  which  our  language  has  no  words. 

Thus  Browning  sings : 

"  This  eve's  the  time, 

This  eve  intense  with  yon  first  trembling  star 
We  seem  to  pant  and  reach ;  scarce  aught  between 
The  earth  that  rises  and  the  heaven  that  bends ; 
All  Nature  self-abandoned,  every  tree 
Flung  as  it  will,  pursuing  its  own  thoughts, 
And  fixed  so,  every  flower  and  every  weed, 
No  pride,  no  shame,  no  victory,  no  defeat ; 
All  under  God,  each  measured  by  itself." 

Truly,  all  who  live  much  for  choice  with  the  trees 
have  seen  them  thus.  It  may  be  that  they  stand 
beneath  strange  phases  of  light,  or  upon  the  skirts 
of  storm ;  it  may  be  that  they  are  sunk  behind 
the  dancing  hazes  of  noon ;  it  may  be  they  lie 
under  frost  and  starlight,  themselves  refined  into 
a  dim  phantasm  against  the  snow ;  or  it  may  be 


8  MY  DEVON   YEAR 

that  they  have  retreated  into  arcana  of  Nature  and 
seem  to  brood  in  a  sort  of  solemn  arboreal  excitation, 
each  leaf  partaking,  each  twig  and  bough  sharing,  in 
the  trance  of  the  mother  tree. 

But  these  moments  and  the  hushed  climaxes  of 
them  are  incommunicable.  The  very  thoughts  bred 
when  we  stand  at  invisible  barriers  and  see  the 
Mother  in  some  moment  of  her  unknown  ritual  may 
not  be  set  down.  For  one  cannot  create  new  words  ; 
one  is  mute  before  the  shrine  of  such  solemnities. 
They  come  and  go,  quicker  than  rainbow  colours  ; 
for  a  moment  we  see,  for  a  fraction  of  time  we  under- 
stand ;  then  all  changes,  and  the  familiar  objects 
emerge  from  their  transfiguration,  and  we  know  them 
again  as  they  seem  to  return  out  of  their  vigils. 

And  these  holy  days  that  deny  their  secret  are  not 
fabulous  :  they  are  veritable  intervals  of  time,  shone 
upon,  blown  upon,  rained  upon,  revealed  by  morning 
and  shadowed  by  night.  They  come  when  least  we 
think  to  meet  them  ;  they  suddenly  puzzle  the  wan- 
derer— it  may  be  in  the  noontide  hour  of  his  clearest 
seeing.  They  are  agents  of  mystery ;  they,  too,  belong 
to  Truth  ;  and  their  very  reservations  stir  the  under 
deeps  of  human  imagination  with  reverence. 

But  this  also  I  say :  that  I  press  not  to  Nature  in 
hope  to  find  anything  beyond  it ;  because  for  me  the 
secret  of  the  day  and  the  magic  of  the  night  alike 
hold  no  revelations  and  no  truths  that  lie  outside  the 
confines  of  the  natural  order. 

One  may  recognise  and  deplore  the  limitation  of 


THE   SECRET   OF  THE   DAY  9 

language  in  this  connection.  Our  concept  of  Nature 
is  formulated  at  the  seat  of  thought  with  words,  since 
to  our  brains  thought  without  words  is  impossible ; 
but  observe  how  these  same  syllables  limit  ideas  and 
produce  merely  relative  definitions  (bounded  and 
hedged  and  rendered  precise)  for  those  phenomena 
that  reason  declares  not  relative  but  absolute.  We 
cannot  define  Nature,  because  her  attributes  are  for 
us  unknowable ;  but  we  see  some  of  the  results  pro- 
duced by  these  attributes,  and  we  label,  or  libel 
them  by  imparting  thereto  those  qualities  of  which 
we  have  perception.  Nature  is  "kind,"  "cruel," 
"indifferent,"  and  so  forth.  Even  while  we  speak 
we  know  that  the  utterance  is  nonsense,  yet  it  cannot 
easily  be  escaped.  We  may  only  discuss  this  great 
idea  of  Nature  in  our  own  terms ;  we  may  only  con- 
ceive it  as  animated  with  those  qualities  we  know — if 
animated  at  all.  We  do  indeed  conceive  the  possibility 
of  other  attributes  as  we  do  conceive  the  absolute,  but 
we  lack  the  mental  machinery  to  attain  to  it,  and  in 
defiance  of  reason  we  are  constrained  to  postulate  and 
limit  even  while  we  know  the  vanity  of  the  process. 

But  I  would  justify  myself  in  this  book  before  the 
criticism  of  a  thinker  here  and  there.  When  I  speak 
of  "  Mother  Earth,"  or  the  "  Universal  Mother,"  I  do 
so  with  open  eyes.  The  futility  of  the  phrase  is  not 
hidden  from  me,  but  it  is  beautiful  and  convenient. 
Moreover,  in  these  papers  frank  beauty  is  all  that  I 
pretend  to  be  concerned  with  ;  and  the  more  rational 
the  outlook,  the  more  beautiful  does  Nature  become. 


WINTER    BOUGHS 

JRE  thickening  buds  alter  the  contour  of 
the  great  deciduous  trees  and  tell  of  that 
intermediate  season  before  the  breaking 
of  the  green ;  while  still  Winter  holds  the 
woodlands  ;  while  giant  trunks  drip  grimy  tears  and 
naked  boughs  wail  that  wild  song  proper  to  the  time, 
those  who  please  may  study  the  anatomy  of  the 
forest  and  note  the  manifold  beauties  apparent  in 
the  habit  of  the  trees.  For  from  trunk  and  bole  to 
topmost  twig,  each  king,  queen,  courtier  of  the  wood 
possesses  a  proper  distinction. 

Among  them  all  the  oak  most  surely  proclaims  his 
character  in  his  bearing.  Sturdy  at  foot,  tough  of 
bark,  stalwart  of  branch,  he  paints  a  picture  of  strength 
on  the  background  of  forest  and  sky,  a  scheme  of 
sharp  zigzag  angles  and  abrupt  bifurcations  against 
the  sunset.  No  delicate  droop  of  bough,  no  dreaming 
haze  of  spray  and  misty  shadow  of  new-born  wood 
mark  his  skeleton.  Hard,  firm,  and  precise  to  each 
neat  finial  is  the  Naval  oak.  Only  the  horse-chestnut 
and  sycamore  exhibit  less  detail  in  their  shapes. 
Quercus  Robur,  indeed,  disdains  all  prettiness.  His 
significance  is  his  charm— he  means  so  much  to  an 

10 


WINTER-BOUGHS 


WINTER   BOUGHS  n 

Englishman — and  he  knows  that  though  the  wanderer 
may  not  admire  the  gaunt,  grim  shadow  of  him  in 
the  wood  or  on  the  weald,  he  none  the  less  loves 
the  story  that  is  told  by  his  knotted  elbows,  im- 
placable trunk,  and  iron  constitution.  Thus,  in  adult 
splendour,  he  stands  unquestioned  king  of  the  forest, 
among  fair  creatures  more  dainty  than  himself.  Great 
names  are  written  on  his  wrinkled  front ;  great  deeds 
are  woven  into  the  centuries  of  his  life ;  and  before 
the  spectacle  of  him  man  perforce  pays  reverence 
and  passes  back  a  little  way  to  the  times  that  are 
gone.  Then,  at  closer  hand,  one  sees  the  King  Oak 
at  Boscobel,  with  foliage  a  little  tawny  under  the  first 
breath  of  September  winds  ;  one  notes  a  sore-driven 
monarch  of  men  peeping  with  death-pale  forehead 
and  damp  locks  from  his  hiding-place  on  the  lofty 
bough.  Recollect,  also,  Owen  Glendower's  Oak, 
already  a  patriarch  in  1400  A.D.  ;  the  Bull  Oak  of 
Wedgenock,  that  was  hale  and  hearty  at  the  Conquest ; 
the  Cowthorpe  Oak,  whose  age  Professor  Burnet 
computed  at  sixteen  hundred  years  ;  and  other  giants 
of  like  repute,  whose  brows  were  wrinkled  with  years 
ere  Drake,  or  Ralegh,  or  many  another  heart  of  oak 
drew  breath. 

The  ash  is  of  a  widely  different  habit,  yet  exhibits 
poverty  of  detail  by  comparison  with  other  trees  of 
smaller  foliage.  It  is  a  question  of  the  size  of  the 
leaf.  The  ash  ends  with  stout  buds,  for  his  leaf  is 
large  ;  but  the  general  contour  of  him  is  most  graceful 
in  line.  His  limbs  taper  regularly,  and  their  boughs 


12  MY  DEVON   YEAR 

spring  at  angles  mostly  acute  in  relation  to  the  main 
stem  or  branch ;  while  the  lower,  pendulous  branches 
often  fall  with  droop  as  delicate  and  perfect  as  those 
of  the  beech  or  weeping  willow.  Like  the  Druid 
oaks,  the  ash  enjoyed  high  vogue  for  a  tree  of  power 
and  mystery.  In  the  Norse  mythology  Yggdrasil  was 
the  ash  tree  of  the  Universe,  whose  roots  ran  in  three 
directions — to  the  Asa-gods  in  heaven,  to  the  Frost- 
giants,  and  to  the  under  world.  Odin  made  the  first 
man  from  ash,  while  the  first  woman  he  manufactured 
of  elm.  Ask  and  Embla  are  the  Scandinavian  Adam 
and  Eve.  Aforetime  much  agricultural  importance 
attached  to  the  earliest  energies  of  ash  and  oak, 
and  a  tradition,  still  accounted  sound  in  conservative 
minds,  declares  that  if  the  oak  gets  into  leaf  before 
his  neighbour  a  fat  year  may  be  prophesied,  while 
should  the  ash  be  first  to  shake  out  his  pinnate  leaves, 
then  will  follow  a  cold  Summer  and  sterile  Autumn. 
Now,  in  January,  the  wolf-month,  both  trees  sleep 
soundly,  and  the  fate  of  July  and  August  lies  hid  in 
budlets  that  are  transparent  sepia  or  brown  on  the 
oak,  but  black  and  oval  upon  his  neighbour's  up- 
turned twig-ends. 

The  horse-chestnut  is  another  tree  built  on  lines  of 
utmost  simplicity  and  severity.  The  scaffold  for  his 
noble  foliage  and  pyramids  of  blossom — those  fair 
flowers  that  glimmer  like  lighted  tapers  out  of  the 
ebony  and  silver  of  moony  nights — is  simple  yet  of 
perfect  adaptation  to  subsequent  foliage  and  massive 
fruit.  A  candelabra-like  skeleton  is  that  of  the  horse- 


WINTER   BOUGHS  13 

chestnut — the  plan  of  those  candlesticks  of  many 
branches  (probably  copied  from  the  fig  tree)  that 
adorned  the  Temple ;  and  I  have  seen  his  plump 
buds,  wet  with  the  kiss  of  the  West  wind,  glimmer 
along  a  Spring  wood  at  time  of  sunset  light,  as  though 
each  naked  tree  was  hung  with  countless  fairy  lamps 
of  amber.  The  sycamore  partakes  of  a  somewhat 
similar  character,  and  his  kinsman,  the  hedge-loving 
maple,  also,  but  in  smaller  sort. 

Next  to  the  oak,  however,  stands  the  elm  as  most 
characteristic  of  British  trees,  and  the  grey  bulk  of 
him,  whether  pollarded  in  hedgerows  or  rising,  un- 
touched by  steel,  above  park  and  pleasance,  is  a 
dear  sight  to  English  eyes.  Evidences  of  his  million 
flowerets  will  soon  be  visible  and  thicken  that  in- 
finitely delicate  tracery  of  him  against  the  pallid  blue 
of  spring  skies ;  but  his  noble  anatomy  is  not  yet 
hidden ;  his  rounded  head  still  draws  grey,  gauzy 
patterns  above  the  gloom  of  a  winter  world,  and 
writes  "  England"  along  the  ridges  of  the  high 
hills,  against  the  red  earth  of  this  my  home,  and 
over  the  green  valleys  and  water-meadows  laced 
with  silver.  Soon  missel-thrushes,  with  harsh  in- 
quiry scattered  on  the  windy  air,  will  seek  in 
the  forks  of  the  elm  for  a  place  to  build  their 
nests ;  and  they  may  err  in  their  judgments  and 
choose  a  monarch  that  is  doomed,  for  the  woodmen 
are  busy  at  this  season,  and  many  a  great  elm  has 
burst  its  last  bud.  The  tree  is  a  part  of  rural  life. 
It  shelters  the  hamlet ;  greets  the  waking  eyes  of 


14  MY  DEVON   YEAR 

village  communities ;  paints  the  progress  of  the 
seasons  for  them  against  heaven  ;  thunders  majestic- 
ally to  earth  under  their  pigmy  arms ;  contributes  to 
their  habitations ;  furnishes  their  last  pillow  beneath 
the  daisies.  A  tree  well  typifies  the  eternal  change 
that  keeps  all  matter  sweet.  To-day  the  thrushes 
sing  in  its  ancestral  top ;  to-morrow,  at  the  ringing 
music  of  the  axe,  it  will  fall  to  make  men's  coffins. 

The  beech  and  her  handmaiden,  the  silver  birch, 
represent  the  softer  sex  of  woodland  courts.  Their 
beauty  none  can  dispute,  for  the  fascinating  delicacy 
of  the  greater,  and  the  gleam  and  droop  of  the  lesser 
tree,  as  its  filigree  falls  in  a  cloud  about  the  shining 
stem,  are  sights  that  lull  the  weariness  of  Winter  and 
ameliorate  those  hours  when  the  forests  still  rest 
and  impatient  man  longs  to  see  them  waken.  Now 
those  pools  and  splashes  of  gorgeous  copper  that 
spread  beneath  the  beeches  in  Autumn  have  vanished, 
and  the  splendour  of  them  has  sunk  into  the  grey 
and  ghostly.  Aloft  the  traceries  twine,  naked  save 
for  a  few  dead  seed-cases,  that  have  long  since  scat- 
tered their  treasures  of  mast,  yet  clutch  in  death  at 
the  branch  that  bore  them.  But  the  graceful  sweep 
and  spread  of  the  tree,  leaping  from  its  smooth  ash- 
coloured  trunk  to  a  fork  of  two  or  three  main  limbs, 
and  then  rising  to  the  crown  and  falling  to  the 
earth  in  spray  of  pendulous  branches — the  scheme 
of  the  beech,  its  symmetry,  beauty  of  line,  down- 
ward droop,  and  upward  spring,  can  only  be  under- 
stood at  this  season,  or  when  the  splendour  of  the 


WINTER   BOUGHS  15 

dying  year  is  scattered  on  rough  winds,  and  the  grey 
skeleton  peeps  forth  while  yet  some  foliage  flames 
aloft  and  below.  In  the  old  days  men  made  their 
beds  of  the  Autumn  beech  leaves,  and  from  them 
manufactured  mattresses  superior  in  every  way — in 
sweetness,  softness,  stability — to  those  of  chaff  and 
straw ;  but  now  no  such  thing  happens,  and  the 
leaves,  fulfilling  the  primeval  plan,  flutter  only  to  feed 
the  earth  that  bore  them. 

Yet  best  of  all  I  love  the  birch  :  that  dainty  maiden 
tree  of  the  heath  and  copse,  of  the  combe  and 
dingle  and  forest  fringe.  Now  she  raises  her  silver 
body  under  a  veil,  and  stands  knee-deep  in  the  dead 
brake  fern  ;  her  December  delicacy  is  already  some- 
thing lost,  for  tiny  catkins  begin  to  take  substance 
against  the  purple  of  her  young  wood. 


THE    WHITE    LIGHT 

[HE  time  is  noontide,  and  the  day  one  of 
North-East  wind,  uniform  grey  sky,  and 
horizons  restricted.  Upon  the  hills  and 
along  the  hedges  snow  still  lingers,  and 
here  and  there,  over  surfaces  that  possess  a  lower 
temperature  than  the  surrounding  scene,  it  persists  in 
streak  and  patch.  Distance  is  wholly  hidden  by  the 
down-crowding  grey.  There  is  no  promise  of  the  sun, 
but  the  cold,  clear  light — widely  diffused  and  intense 
— offers  a  phase  of  truth.  It  searches  all  things  within 
a  narrow  radius ;  there  is  little  mystery  about  it ;  no 
beautiful  secrets  stand  half-revealed  in  tender  shadow, 
half-concealed  in  direct  sunshine.  This  light  spreads 
evenly,  like  a  dawn  upon  the  waking  of  the  world, 
shows  the  leaf -spike  of  the  wild  arum  breaking  out 
of  the  earth,  the  lengthening,  softening  catkins  of  the 
hazel,  the  seedlings  of  the  wild  cresses  and  galium 
folk,  the  fruiting  mosses,  the  greys  and  green-greys 
and  golden-greens  of  that  inner  robe  of  filmy  living 
things — lichens  and  liverworts — that  sit  next  to  the 
red  earth-mother's  own  bosom,  and  love  the  chilly 
moisture  of  grey  February. 

This  candid  light  surrounds  one  with  a  sort  of  ring 

16 


THE  WHITE  LIGHT 


THE   WHITE   LIGHT  17 

on  such  a  day,  and  the  wayfarer  moves  through  an 
immediate  environment  of  minor  facts.  There  is  a 
sturdy  honesty  about  this  hour  that  extends  from  the 
breezes  to  the  searching  character  of  the  illumination. 
It  is  a  day  that  bids  one  look  to  the  thing  nearest  at 
hand  and  leave  the  greater  earth  alone. 

Detail  seems  the  obvious  direction  of  the  mind 
rather  than  a  wide  and  general  survey ;  there  comes 
a  call  from  the  purple  leaves  of  the  briar  still  hanging ; 
from  the  snake-like  evolutions  of  its  trailing  stems, 
set  out  here  to  the  last  curved  thorn ;  from  the  entire 
tangled  texture  of  the  hedgerows  and  underwoods 
that  seem  to  be  enlarged  in  every  minute  particular  as 
though  viewed  through  a  microscope.  Less  than 
usual  is  left  to  the  imagination;  each  twist  of  the  wood- 
bine, each  stalk  of  the  dead  bracken,  each  withered, 
ghostly  stem  of  the  vanished  umbel-bearers,  each  spray 
of  ivy,  battered  coral  of  iris,  veil  of  moss,  shining 
hart's-tongue,  sprouting  spore  of  fern,  scarlet  cup  of 
peziza  sprung  from  a  dead  twig — all,  to  the  sodden 
carpet  of  the  leaves,  and  the  skeleton  wings  of  the 
sycamore  seeds,  and  the  acorns  already  sprouting 
where  they  lie  scattered,  are  shown  sharply,  clearly, 
nakedly  forth.  And  if  these  manifold  creatures — 
living  and  dead — can  be  declared  to  have  personal 
colours,  dependent  on  no  freak  of  light  and  shadow, 
answering  to  no  chance  reflection,  moon-gleam  or 
sun-gleam,  then  it  is  the  white  light  that  gives  them 
their  due,  and  tells  the  grey,  or  brown,  or  livid 
truth  about  them. 


1 8  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

And  in  the  white  light  one  must  be  very  honest  with 
all  things — for  honesty  is  the  spirit  of  such  a  day.  It 
is  a  time  for  thoroughness,  for  confession  of  error,  for 
rectification  of  wrong  impressions  as  to  form  and 
colour  and  other  facts.  Such  an  hour  may  show  the 
character  of  a  man  and  gauge  a  little  of  his  worth,  a 
little  of  his  ambition.  It  is  remorseless,  this  light- 
remorseless  as  the  ray  of  Truth  itself;  and  some 
recoil  therefrom  as  they  shrink  from  the  shattering 
of  false  but  beautiful  impressions ;  and  some  face  it, 
and,  setting  certainties  above  all  things,  learn  their 
errors  in  this  stern  book,  stand  at  once  humiliated  by 
past  mistakes,  heartened  before  new  facts  that  lift 
their  knowledge  a  step  higher. 

The  white  light  of  February  shows  natural  things 
in  their  veritable  relations  each  to  each — the  dead 
wood  and  the  lichen-growth,  the  oak-tree  bough  and 
the  crest  of  polypody  fern  that  crowns  it ;  the  mosses 
that  love  green  wood,  and  the  mosses  that  love  red 
earth,  and  the  mosses  that  love  the  old  brick  wall ; 
the  shapes  of  the  seed-leaves  everywhere  sprouting ; 
the  way  Nature  performs  that  annual  miracle  of 
removing  her  own  products — her  miles  of  fallen  leaves, 
her  acres  of  withered  fern,  her  dead  trees,  and  the 
empty  nests  of  last  year.  In  this  naked  hour  the 
processes  pass  under  our  eyes,  and  we  perceive  that 
a  whirl  of  change  is  going  on  in  silence.  Yet  one  can 
almost  feel  the  tremendous  invisible  powers  at  work 
in  this  white  light ;  one  can  almost  hear  the  roar  of 


THE   WHITE   LIGHT  19 

the  forces  that  go  to  make  the  world  ready  for  another 
Spring. 

But  that  is  a  fancy  bred  of  earthly  experience  and 
the  knowledge  of  the  din  and  dust  that  go  to  all 
man's  achievements  upon  matter.  Here  Nature  works 
with  soft  snows  and  with  the  fingers  of  midnight 
frosts,  with  clouds  and  golden  sunshines,  mists  and 
dews.  Only  the  winds  sometimes  sweeten  her  autumn 
workshops,  and  her  rains  of  equinox  carry  the  products 
gleaned  from  sun  and  sky  and  leafy  Summers  back  to 
the  veins  of  the  Mother,  that  her  unborn  children  may 
be  the  fairer. 

On  such  a  day  it  is  well  to  discard  opinions  if  the 
white  light  proves  them  wrong.  Strip  them  away, 
and  let  the  North- East  wind  touch  the  scar  they  leave. 
If  it  is  your  habit  to  retain  an  open  mind,  then  error 
rectified  is  merely  pleasure  won.  If,  with  the  body 
of  this  world's  professorial  brethren,  you  are  a  man 
of  theories  and  love  not  to  see  them  shaken,  there 
may  come  a  pang  and  a  flash  of  resentment.  Yet 
what  you  take  so  ill,  or  will  not  take  at  all  from  your 
fellow-professor,  from  Nature's  self  you  must  take, 
though  it  shatter  the  work  of  your  years,  and  blow 
down  the  wind  all  your  most  cherished  convictions. 
If  that  befalls  your  life-work,  woe  betide  you  ;  yet 
courage  remains.  There  is  the  discipline  of  pain, 
the  discipline  of  grief,  the  discipline  of  failure ;  and 
the  greatest  of  these  is  the  last. 

Do  not  question  the  sincerity  of  this  still  hour 
under  the  sky ;  be  sure  that  the  day  is  right  and 


20  MY  DEVON   YEAR 

you  are  wrong  ;  hasten  to  range  yourself  with  the 
white  light,  for  the  belief  it  has  shattered,  the  cherished 
opinion  that  it  has  rendered  vain,  must  have  met  this 
fearless  ray  sooner  or  later.  Moreover,  you  may  be 
privileged  to  win  a  new  and  a  true  revelation  that 
none  yet  have  won  before.  If  only  the  set  of  a  leaf 
on  a  stem,  the  modelling  of  a  seed-case,  the  trick  of  a 
squirrel — it  is  something. 

There  seems  a  danger  in  art  that  we  grow  a  little 
too  contented  with  our  skill,  and  offer  our  work, 
knowing  that  few  will  be  at  the  pains  to  verify  or 
possess  the  knowledge  to  correct.  It  is  a  great  peril 
to  become  satisfied  with  our  own  seeing,  to  call  atten- 
tion to  our  cleverness,  to  insist  overmuch  on  our  per- 
sonal trick  of  expression  in  the  terms  of  art.  The 
book  is  open  to  all,  and  Nature  still  rules  as  the 
mistress  of  this  little  dame's  school  of  a  world.  Take 
your  exercises  to  her  to  correct.  Let  her  decide  how 
far  your  observation  echoes  her  truth,  how  far  your 
pen  or  your  brush  have  won  inspiration  from  her 
originals.  Live  in  her  white  light  sometimes,  and 
then  you  will  better  appreciate  the  worth  of  her  rain- 
bows and  sunsets,  her  unlimited  glories,  and  high 
moments  of  pomp  and  praise. 

You  will  also  learn  the  value  of  human  criticism, 
and  how  to  separate  the  chaff  of  it  from  the  wheat. 

The  white  light  shows  each  man  his  many-sided 
ignorance  ;  and  let  him  face  it,  and  confess  it,  and 
mend  it  if  he  can ;  for  dread  to  confess  ignorance 
is  of  ignorance  the  most  staring  sign. 


"THE  OLD  PATHS' 


"THE    OLD    PATHS" 

HE  ferny  fragrances,  the  deep  morning 
dews,  the  reign  of  flowers  under  summer 
sunshine,  and  the  wild  fruits  that  follow 
them,  will  make  my  theme  upon  another 
page.  Here  I  design  no  more  than  a  note  in  general 
terms  concerning  Devonshire  lanes,  and  the  first  road- 
ways from  which  they  sprang. 

The  county  lacks  a  good  and  comprehensive  register 
of  its  early  means  of  communication.  Certain  Roman 
military  roads  which  traversed  the  South  are  recorded 
by  Latin  writers,  and  the  Mediceval  Chronicle  gives 
other  details,  and  specifies  some  lines  of  principal 
routes  ;  but,  for  the  most  part,  the  early  historians, 
when  concerned  with  the  subject,  confine  themselves 
to  a  general  statement  that  the  roads  in  the  West 
Country  cannot  be  matched  for  badness.  Bishop 
Cloyne  treated  of  the  matter  some  hundred  years 
ago,  and  his  lordship's  paper,  which  was  printed  as 
an  appendix  to  the  brothers  Lysons,  their  history  of 
Devon,  is  good  reading  and  much  to  the  point. 
Another  admirable  piece  upon  the  subject  that  I  have 
met  with  is  by  Mr.  J.  R.  Chanter,  who  many  years  ago 
contributed  some  notes  on  the  Highways  and  Byways 


21 


22  MY  DEVON  YEAR 

of  North  Devon  in  the  Olden  Time  to  the  archives 
of  the  Devonshire  Association. 

That  our  lanes  are  the  lineal  descendants  of  the 
deep,  pack-saddle  tracks,  it  seems  reasonable  to 
believe,  and  I  know  of  such  that  even  to  this  day 
are  in  a  transition  stage,  or,  being  arrested  in  their 
development  by  disuse,  stand  screened  and  hidden 
in  lonely  spots,  half  lane,  half  old-time  trackway. 
For  the  earlier  lines  of  communication  only  developed 
where  their  evolution  was  demanded,  and  many  have 
wholly  vanished  under  Nature's  busy  fingers  ;  while 
not  a  few  still  seam  the  country  and  steal  through 
sequestered  glens,  the  fringes  of  heaths,  the  hearts 
of  placid  pasture  lands.  "  Mere  clefts "  are  these 
sometimes,  "  which  it  is  impossible  to  imagine  can 
have  been  formed  otherwise  than  by  the  attrition 
of  the  feet  of  men  and  cattle  for  ages  ;  and  yet  now 
they  are  never  used  nor  traversed,  and  form  concealed 
nooks  thickly  covered  with  vegetation  and  ferns, 
particularly  the  scolopendria,  growing  in  the  utmost 
luxuriance ;  while  others,  still  in  use,  bear  similar 
unmistakable  marks  of  extreme  antiquity." 

So  Mr.  Chanter ;  and  next  he  discusses  the  Dart- 
moor trackways,  a  theme  not  less  interesting  but  more 
obscure.  On  the  moorland  these  paved  ways  may 
still  be  traced  for  many  a  mile,  save  where  they 
vanish  under  the  bogs ;  but  upon  enclosed  country 
indications  of  such  old  roads  are  now,  of  course,  most 
rare. 

Devonshire  lanes,   probably,    come    nearer   to   the 


"THE   OLD   PATHS"  23 

regular    paths    of  the    Middle    Ages    than   any   yet 
remaining   to   us ;    and    if   our   forefathers   had    won 
their  battle  against  the  revived  science  of  the  road- 
maker,    good    modern    ways   might   still    be   uncom- 
mon west  of  Exeter.     For  the  outcry  that  greeted 
Me  Adam  and  his  system  is  recorded  to  our  detriment, 
and   generations   to   come  will    laugh  at  the  honest 
West-country  men  and  their  indignant  remonstrances. 
With  adequate  road-surfaces  arose  a  system  of  tolls 
and  turnpikes  to  support  them  ;   and  great  was  the 
amazement,   gloomy  were  the  prophecies  that  these 
innovations  wakened.     It  was  shown  that  the  draining 
of  the  roads  abolished  the  agreeable  mud,  and  those 
familiar  pools  and  sloughs  so  necessary  to  preserve 
the  hoofs  of  horses !     Again,  where  could  travelling 
sheep  and  cattle  refresh  by  the  wayside  if  there  were 
to  be  no  more  puddles?     And  a  more  serious  and 
moral  objection   was   also   raised.       Such   perfection 
of  road  must  clearly  conduce  to  carriages,  to  luxury 
and  to  effeminate  love  of  physical  comfort.     Another 
danger  lurked  in  the  sudden  glorification  of  the  coach- 
horse.     The  world  worshipped  the  coach-horse ;   he 
was    the    great    spirit    of    the    moment ;    stood    for 
progress  ;  linked  town  and  country,  and  represented 
a  breathless  increase  of  facilities  for  communication. 
Herein  appeared  a  new  peril.    The  husbandman  would, 
without  question,  become  the  slave  of  the  coach-horse 
also ;  he  would  cease  from  the  culture  of  wheat  and 
barley,  and  sow  nothing  but  oats   for  coach-horses  ; 
and    then    the   poor,    denied   their    bread-corn,    must 


24  MY  DEVON   YEAR 

perish.  Thus  the  new  roads  meant  famine  and  dis- 
aster every  way.  A  lesser  evil  was  feared  in  that 
such  comfortable  locomotion  must  certainly  render 
men  careless  of  their  horsemanship,  and  thus  degrade 
a  national  science ;  while,  most  terrible  objection  of 
all,  we  may  read  in  the  Social  History  of  the  Southern 
Counties  how  the  increased  ease  of  traffic  and  com- 
munication between  country  and  town  was  tending 
enormously  to  swell  certain  urban  populations  at 
the  expense  of  the  rural.  Statistics  showed  the 
gravity  of  this  matter.  It  was  computed  that  not  less 
than  eighteen  persons  passed  every  week  between 
York,  Chester,  and  Exeter ;  while  a  similar  number 
of  travellers,  whose  destination  was  London,  departed 
weekly  from  these  cities — "  which  came,  on  the  whole, 
to  the  frightful  number  of  eighteen  hundred  and 
seventy-two  in  one  year ! "  Well  might  alarmists 
predict  the  ruin  of  the  country  before  such  an  exodus. 
The  controversy  raged,  and  from  many  a  pulpit,  stout 
old  Tory  parsons  thundered  against  the  iniquity  of 
the  new  ways  and  those  who  believed  in  them.  Shall 
you  not  find  support  for  the  old  pack-tracks  and 
waggon-routes  of  puddle  and  rut  and  chaos  in 
Jeremiah  ?  At  any  rate,  those  ancient  clerics  believed 
so,  and,  secure  in  the  consciousness  that  the  prophet 
was  with  them,  preached  many  a  sledge-hammer 
discourse  against  improved  progression.  "  Thus 
saith  the  Lord,  Stand  ye  in  the  ways,  and  see,  and 
ask  for  the  old  paths,  where  is  the  good  way,  and 
walk  therein,  and  ye  shall  find  rest  for  your  souls." 


"THE   OLD   PATHS"  25 

Yet  who  shall  affirm  that  those  well-meaning 
shepherds  did  not  bless  McAdam  in  secret  when 
returning  upon  moonless  nights  from  the  squire's 
mahogany  after  comfortable  and  prolonged  com- 
munion with  a  grand  old  vintage  ? 

Despite  Jeremiah,  the  "old  paths"  were  either 
neglected  or  transformed  into  new  ones.  The  pack- 
horses  moved  along  wider  and  better-paved  new 
ways ;  stone  took  the  place  of  mud  ;  and  only  here 
and  there,  in  regions  too  remote  to  demand  attention, 
were  the  ancient  tracks  permitted  to  remain.  To 
these  Nature  succeeded,  and  quickly  transformed  them 
into  musical  bowers  of  interlaced  hazel,  into  homes  of 
many  birds  and  flowers  and  creeping  things  innumer- 
able. Still  the  blossoms  and  fragrant  grasses  bedeck 
and  adorn  them  ;  still  the  ferns  frequent  their  shelter  ; 
still  above  them  flourish  the  trees,  and  within  them 
countless  busy  things  increase  and  multiply,  and  justify 
their  existence  with  unconscious  joy. 

Devon  lanes  possess  all  the  characteristics  of  the 
trackways  on  a  large  scale.  The  high  banks  create 
an  artificial  shelter  for  flora,  and  protect  growing 
things  from  the  wind.  In  Summer  such  a  damp  and 
hothouse  atmosphere  is  here  created  that  green  things 
wax  into  giants ;  for  the  lanes  hold  the  rainfall 
long  after  hill  and  vale  are  dry  again  ;  the  evapora- 
tion is  slow,  and  all  vegetable  growth  blesses  con- 
ditions so  favourable  to  its  prosperity.  Our  lanes  wind 
without  pattern  or  method  through  regions  pastoral 
rather  than  agricultural,  and  the  shelter  of  the  high 


26  MY  DEVON   YEAR 

hedges  has  a  double  value  in  springtime.  It  screens 
the  road,  and  is  a  boon  to  the  adjoining  fields  also ; 
for  from  sudden  rain  and  fierce  suns  it  protects  the 
grazing  stock,  and  against  the  sleet  and  icy  winds  of 
Spring  it  also  shields  them. 

Such  hedges  are  loved  by  mother  ewes,  and  bleating 
of  many  a  new-born  lamb  echoes  tremulous  along 
them,  when  primroses  and  white  violets  shine  from 
above  ;  when  the  wren's  little  domed  nursery  is  grow- 
ing behind  the  ivy  root ;  when  the  thrush  plasters  her 
frank  nest,  then  leaves  it  awhile  for  the  March  winds 
to  dry. 


LORDS  AND  LADIES 


LORDS    AND    LADIES 

KNOW  a  wood  where  the  voice  of  the  wild 
dove  is  oftentimes  heard,  and  her  plumage 
shines  blue  against  the  grey  and  ash  colour 
of  last  year's  foliage.  On  the  earth  beneath 
this  forest  of  beech  and  fir,  the  copper  splendour  of 
Autumn  has  long  passed,  and  save  for  a  cluster  of  red 
leaves  here  and  there,  clinging  in  death  to  the  parent 
bough  that  knows  them  no  longer,  you  shall  see  no- 
thing but  the  livid  foliage  that  undergoes  destruction. 
Those  active  acids  that  in  Autumn's  pinching  hand 
awoke  such  glories  of  gold  and  sunset  colour  along  the 
fringe  of  the  woods — the  principles  behind  that  bygone 
display — are  returned  to  the  earth  again,  and  the 
unnumbered  leaves  have  paid  the  debt  they  owed  to 
the  giant  roots  twisted  deep  down  in  the  darkness. 
Now  their  skeletons  alone  remain.  But  the  world  is 
awake,  and  the  soul  of  Spring  rises  in  opal  mists  on  the 
meadows  and  in  the  scent  of  flowers ;  her  sleepy  eyes 
wake  in  the  blue  speedwells,  in  the  purple  of  violets 
and  the  pale  light  of  primroses,  where,  tucked  snugly 
along  the  ledges  of  high  banks  or  sunny  hedgerows, 
they  blink  at  a  spring  world  with  innocence  as  frank  and 
wide-eyed  as  that  of  the  long-legged,  shaky  lambs. 

27 


28  MY  DEVON   YEAR 

Beneath  my  wood,  upon  its  confines  and  about  the 
ripe  old  crumbling  banks  that  hem  the  forest  in  and 
make  a  lodge  for  coneys,  there  leap  aloft  countless 
tiny  spires  of  green.  Here  is  the  home  of  Arum 
maculatum,  or  lords  and  ladies,  or  adder's  meat,  or 
cuckoo-pint,  or  parson-in-the-pulpit,  or  wake-robin — 
the  commonest,  strangest  of  our  wayside  weeds,  and 
sole  member  of  the  great  Arum  family  whose  foot 
is  on  his  native  hedge  in  the  British  Islands.  Rich 
and  shining,  he  sparkles  through  mats  of  fallen  foliage, 
or  spreading  on  the  red  earth  of  the  land,  brightens 
it  by  contrast  with  the  surrounding  sere.  His  blunt, 
arrowy  leaves  show  full  sweep  and  strength  of  lush 
life.  There  is  almost  a  coarseness  in  his  intense 
vitality  and  vigour.  For  the  most  part  he  is  ivy- 
green,  with  the  glow  of  health  in  every  sappy  stem 
and  sprawling  leaf.  Rarely,  however,  shall  be  found 
a  wild  arum  of  gentler  mould  and  less  redolent 
of  the  soil.  Such  a  specimen  will  be  seen  more 
tender  in  his  colour,  with  greater  delicacy  of  foliage, 
and  the  veins  of  him  will  show  a  darker  tone  than 
the  planes  of  the  leaf  which  may  be  almost  golden. 
Again,  the  speckled  variety  that  gives  to  the  plant 
its  distinguishing  name,  while  at  least  as  comely  and 
as  strong  as  the  commoner,  unblotched  arum,  makes 
a  contrast  with  his  strange,  many-shaped  sprinkling 
of  rich  black  dots  and  streaks  and  splashes. 

Soon  sharp  spears  of  paler  green  will  be  pushing 
above  the  rich  leaves  of  the  lords  and  ladies,  and  these 
breaking,  each  hooded  spathe  will  gracefully  uncurl 


LORDS   AND  LADIES  29 

until  the  buff  and  purple  aristocracy  within  stand 
revealed.  The  arrangement  of  the  fertile  and  un- 
fertile flowers  hidden  away  beneath  the  spadix  or 
central  club  is  beautiful,  and  though  arum  soon 
vanishes  amid  the  uncounted  greens  and  glories  of 
Summer,  he  reappears  again  in  Autumn,  when  his 
clump  of  berries  has  ripened  into  a  splendid  sceptre 
of  scarlet.  His  sagittate  foliage  has  disappeared,  his 
cowl  of  apple-green  has  ceased  to  be,  but  he  lifts  up 
his  good  year's  work  with  the  rest,  and  then,  when 
his  fruit  has  fallen,  departs  again  until,  in  late  December 
or  early  January,  he  thrusts  the  cold  earth  to  right 
and  left  with  his  green  halberts,  and  begins  once  more 
the  business  of  the  seasons. 

His  root-stock  is  a  commodity  worthy  of  considera- 
tion, and  at  one  time,  under  the  name  of  Portland 
sago,  a  preparation  made  from  his  little  tubers  was 
widely  bought.  It  formed  a  part  of  the  old,  much- 
used  hair  powder,  and  also  represented  a  principal 
ingredient  of  the  starch  that  was  wont  to  stiffen  the 
ruffs  of  the  Maiden  Queen,  of  Shakespeare,  and  the 
mighty  men  of  old. 

Cuckoo-pint  flourished  as  a  notable  medicine  also, 
a  specific  for  the  plague  ;  while  water  in  which  the 
roots  had  been  boiled  was  held  a  precious  medica- 
ment for  sore  eyes,  or  those  that  had  by  evil  chance 
taken  on  the  colour  of  mourning.  But  wake  robin 
is  an  acrimonious  creature,  despite  good  points,  and 
only  through  a  process  of  much  boiling  and  trial  as 
by  fire  do  his  virtues  appear.  Like  a  thousand  other 


30  MY  DEVON  YEAR 

wayside  plants  once  variously  esteemed  for  their  real 
or  imagined  values,  he  is  forgotten  to-day,  and 
flourishes  all  Great  Britain  over  without  let  save  from 
the  fingers  of  children. 


THE    SCYTHE-BEARER 

JERHAPS  the  wonderful  painting  of  the 
winds  has  not  been  sufficiently  noted  by 
artists ;  yet  upon  the  great  currents  of 
air  stirring  at  earth's  surface  much  de- 
pends, and  the  practised  eye  may  usually  guess, 
without  note  of  flying  cloud  or  bending  grass-blade, 
whence  the  breezes  blow. 

The  southern  wind,  "moist  with  long  kissing  of  his 
sweetheart  sea,"  invariably  comes  robed  in  cloud,  the 
harbinger  of  rain.  Upon  his  advent  the  atmosphere 
is  apt  to  take  a  crystal  clarity,  and  under  a  clouded 
sky  of  diffused  light  all  things  grow  near  and  distinct. 
The  West  wind  shares  this  quality,  but  to  him  belongs 
fine  weather  as  well  as  wet.  He  is  usually  a  genial 
giant ;  and  though  many  a  scene  in  this  our  West 
Country  bears  his  yoke  on  forest  trees  that  have 
bowed  before  him  for  a  hundred  years,  yet  to  him 
and  the  wind  of  the  North  belongs  the  pleasantest 
weather  that  we  experience. 

The  West  wind  is  a  cloud  magician,  and  does 
wonders  on  high  with  his  giant  peaks  and  pinnacles 
lifted  from  old  ocean  ;  the  North  wind  rules  Winter, 
and  then  his  grey  wings  hold  the  snow ;  yet  he  is 
a  pleasant  and  a  tonic  companion  through  the  summer 

31 


32  MY  DEVON   YEAR 

months,  when  he  sheathes  his  sword  and  often  takes 
his  Western  brother's  hand. 

But  the  scythe-bearer  no  man  loves,  and  I  think, 
save  Charles  Kingsley,  none  has  paid  him  a  com- 
pliment in  print.  Even  that  is  to  say  too  much,  for 
it  was  not  to  the  true  East  wind  that  the  genial 
genius  of  Kingsley  turned  a  rhyme,  but  to  his  cousin 
once  removed. 

"Welcome,  wild  North-easter ! 

Shame  it  is  to  see 
Odes  to  every  zephyr ; 
Ne'er  a  verse  to  thee." 

Here,  then,  within  sight  of  his  highway  along 
bending  boughs,  I  speak  the  East  wind's  praise,  and 
declare  we  much  misprize  him.  In  early  March  upon 
high  ground  a  picture  woven  by  him  spread  before  me, 
and  his  magic  mists  hung  low  on  every  side,  so  that 
the  horizon  was  draped  in  an  opaline  haze,  and  only 
the  middle-distance  and  foreground  stood  starkly  out. 
Those  mists  were  of  most  delicate  hues;  they  extended 
low  and  were  more  thickly  spread  along  the  East 
than  elsewhere.  At  the  zenith  clouds  like  feathers 
flew  singly  in  a  pale  blue  sky.  There  was  a  sting 
in  the  air,  and  all  the  face  of  hill  and  valley  and  open 
water  smarted  visibly,  cowered,  and  shrank.  The 
very  lichen  on  the  stone  seemed  to  curl  at  its  edge 
and  shudder.  The  woods  ached  and  cried  their  pain 
in  dry  wailing ;  the  heath  tinkled  from  every  dead 
bell ;  a  lake  of  water  lying  beneath  me  showed 
its  teeth  where  the  wind  flicked  it  into  ripples,  and  it 


THE   SCYTHE-BEARER  33 

chattered  and  cursed  against  brown  sedges,  and  seemed 
to  pray  for  a  coat  of  ice  to  shelter  its  bosom  from  this 
tyrant. 

Beasts  turned  their  backs  upon  him  and  huddled 
together  for  warmth  ;  in  cots  and  uplifted  homesteads 
the  old  folk  grumbled  and  felt  his  steel  claws  through 
stone  walls,  for  the  very  fires  beside  which  they 
cowered  flickered  sulkily  and  failed  of  their  proper 
warmth.  When  the  sun  was  gone,  this  wind  panted 
before  he  rested  ;  then  he  slept  awhile  and,  returning 
refreshed  at  dawn,  scattered  his  curdled  agonies  on 
all  living  things  and  went  upon  his  way  indifferent  to 
every  frown. 

And  because  he  is  wholly  unloved,  it  becomes  one 
to  find  the  reason  and  learn  whether  the  character 
he  bears  is  earned.  What  does  he  do,  beyond  the 
passing  scorch  and  bite  of  him,  to  anger  all  living 
things  ?  He  slays  his  thousands  ;  he  is  a  murderer  of 
murderers ;  his  knife  cuts  off  countless  sleeping  lives 
that  other  lives  may  have  the  happier  wakening.  He 
breaks  up  the  clod  and  probes  the  dark  chink  and 
cranny ;  he  searches  each  crevice  in  the  wall  and 
thrusts  icy  fingers  into  every  nook.  He  freezes  to 
death  the  chrysalides  of  the  butterflies,  and  decimates 
the  hungry  soft  things  that  would  tatter  all  our  summer 
green  if  allowed  to  live.  For  love  of  young  Spring 
he  slays  the  slayers ;  and  aloft  he  meets  hooded 
plagues  in  air  and  sweeps  away  the  poisons  that  kill 
man. 

He  is  of  the  stuff  that  heroes  are  made.  He  stirred 
D 


34  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

the  Vikings'  blood,  and  touched  them  to  greatness  ; 
and  still  he  flies,  the  very  symbol  of  scorned  and 
unloved  Truth.  He  mourns  not  at  his  frosty  welcome, 
but  swings  his  scythe  to  discipline  a  sleepy  world 
and  brace  it  against  the  clarion  of  the  Spring. 

Ill-repute  is  the  reward  of  most  well-doing ;  and  so 
he  finds  it.  The  wind  of  the  South  brings  life  for  the 
flowers  and  takes  their  incense  to  his  rainy  bosom  ; 
the  West  wind  opens  their  petals  at  dawn,  closes 
them  at  even,  and  is  rewarded  by  all  their  summer 
loveliness  ;  even  Boreas  does  not  fright  them  in  July, 
and  freshens  each  drooping  bud  against  the  noon 
ardour  of  the  sun ;  but  no  flower  loves  the  East  wind. 
No  blossom  lifts  up  a  little  mouth  to  his  grey  throne  ; 
no  gentle  petals  court  his  kiss ;  the  very  leaflet  hugs 
its  twin  fearfully  while  he  blows.  Only  the  daffodil 
will  not  fear  him  presently,  but  curtsey  to  his  salute ; 
only  the  catkins  on  the  hazel  and  alder  will  dance 
merrily  at  his  keen  music  and  shed  their  pollen  to 
transform  the  fertile  blossoms  into  nuts  and  cones. 

He  flies  a  noble  type  of  stern  wisdom  and  far-seeing 
mercy ;  and  he  shall  be  found  the  very  antithesis  of 
a  sentimental  and  hysteric  zeal  that  would  smother 
English  thought  and  action  in  so  many  directions 
to-day.  But  it  must  be  permitted  the  student  of 
Nature's  method  to  hope  that  this  miscalled  hu- 
manity will  soon  vanish  before  the  East  wind  of 
man's  reason ;  that  instead  of  building  hothouses 
and  forcing-pits  for  our  weeds,  we  shall  cease  to  breed 
them  ;  that  the  social  clod  may  be  probed  even  to  its 


THE   SCYTHE-BEARER  35 

core  ;  that  the  social  atmosphere  may  also  be  searched 
and  its  poisons  swept  away  for  ever  by  fearless  spirits 
soon  to  rise.  We  shrink  from  the  scalpel  of  Truth  ; 
we  scorn  the  treasure  that  others  greater  than  our- 
selves have  lived  and  died  for ;  we  toss  away  salvation 
to  win  a  fool's  vote ;  we,  who  bred  Jenner,  stand  a 
laughing-stock  for  wiser  nations  who  bless  his  name. 
But  already  the  Orient  wind  heralds  a  glorious  dawn  ; 
already  the  Children  of  the  Morning  sing ;  and  when 
the  earth  and  sky  have  been  searched  and  winnowed 
by  that  wholesome  air,  so  much  the  lovelier,  happier, 
and  sweeter  will  be  those  generations  of  mankind  that 
hereafter  rise  to  mourn  our  errors,  pity  our  ambitions, 
and  forgive  our  manifold  sins  against  the  unborn. 


GREEN    FLOWERS 

DAY,  it  was,  of  moist  breezes  and  low 
pearl -coloured  cloud  that  now  massed 
for  the  down-sending  of  showers,  now 
dislimned  magically  and  revealed  the  blue 
air  and  noonday  sun.  Beneath  the  changing  sky 
a  great  hill  swept  upwards — a  hill  of  many  gradients 
and  pleasant  sights  at  every  step.  It  rose  and 
wound  through  accustomed  scenes  of  the  West. 
Under  lofty  banks  the  way  was  very  steep,  and  sharp 
acclivities  gave  the  wanderer  pause ;  but  as  its  slope 
decreased,  the  banks  correspondingly  dwarfed  and 
dwindled  until  a  man  might  look  over  the  hedges  of 
polled  hazel  and  survey  field  and  forest.  Here  were 
spinnies  of  larch  and  pine,  set  cunningly  in  rota- 
tion by  sportsmen  long  since  dust ;  here  orchards 
rose,  all  silver-grey  under  the  misty  light ;  here  lay 
meadow,  fallow,  and  great  planes  of  remote  woodland, 
while,  closing  the  spacious  outlook,  there  stretched 
a  haze  of  sea,  framed  by  the  sky,  and  the  slopes  of 
hills.  Close  at  hand,  nearer  than  the  grazing  cattle 
or  the  dappled  drab  and  monochrome  of  clustered 
fruit  trees,  extended  a  field,  mother-naked  from  the 
share ;  and  here  upland  rook  and  sea-faring  gull 

36 


GREEN   FLOWERS  37 

moved  amiably  together  in  the  wake  of  a  shouting 
man  and  a  clanking  plough.  Most  thoroughly  the 
birds  explored  every  rich  furrow,  and  few  worms 
and  grubs  escaped  from  them.  Over  each  other's 
back  they  hopped  and  fluttered  with  caw  and  mew  ; 
and  all  were  strangely  unfearful  of  the  man  who  cried 
loudly  to  his  horses  at  every  turn. 

The  bosomy  hills  were  brushed  with  young  green 
where  corn  came  strongly  in  the  blade,  and  along 
the  fringes  of  the  fields,  red  earth  appeared,  where, 
seen  from  afar,  the  moles  had  written  in  wide  angles 
and  sharp  turns,  in  spots  and  dashes  and  ruddy 
splashes,  a  cryptic  language  on  the  green.  Then 
came  the  sun,  and  the  grey  overhead  broke  into  shafts 
of  radiance  that  turned  like  the  spokes  of  a  golden 
wheel  on  the  Spring  world.  The  elms  in  distant 
hedgerows  responded  to  this  shower  of  light,  became 
beautifully  transformed  under  my  eyes  while  the 
shadows  passed  off  them,  and  glimmered  with  in- 
florescence as  ruddy  as  their  mother  earth  beneath. 
A  sort  of  lacework  of  blossom  shrouded  each 
tree  in  a  transparent  veil  of  colour;  and  through 
it  the  thews  and  sinews  of  every  giant  appeared 
rising  with  shapely  limbs,  tapering  branches,  gauze 
of  young  wood,  and  riot  of  life  to  its  rounded 
head. 

Suddenly  I  found  close  at  my  hand  a  little  sea- 
green  chalice  with  drooping  petals  and  lemon  eye. 

Like  wings  the  palmate  foliage  sprang  from  the 
drooped  crown  of  the  flower,  and  I  welcomed  her 


38  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

gladly  and  knew  her  for  the  green  hellebore,  a  Spring 
blossom  not  common  in  the  region  where  I  chanced 
on  her.  Her  sole  indigenous  relation — the  fetid 
hellebore — has  a  purple-fringed  calyx,  and  both  are 
cousins  german  of  that  important  plant  whose  roots 
are  a  drug  of  might,  and  whose  flowers  brighten 
winter  gardens  with  their  pale  rosy-green  or  pure 
white.  After  this  discovery  I  began  to  think  upon 
the  green  flowers  of  Spring,  and,  withdrawing  my 
eyes  from  wider  survey  of  earth,  set  about  immediate 
scrutiny  of  those  things  at  hand.  A  skilled  botanist 
has  since  pointed  out  to  me  that  the  abundance  of 
early  flowers  whose  hues  shall  be  found  to  lie 
between  green  and  golden  green,  and  whose  presence 
is  therefore  inconspicuous  in  the  obtrusive  or  se- 
cluded homes  of  their  choice,  arises  from  the  fact 
that  the  insect  world  is  not  yet  awake,  and  that 
Nature  has  no  great  need  of  flaming  colour-notes  to 
lure  bee,  butterfly,  and  the  rest  to  their  unconscious 
duties  of  pollen  carrying.  Now  the  familiar  dog's 
mercury  met  my  eye  everywhere,  and  no  hint  of  inner 
evil  appeared  in  its  upright  habit,  orderly  foliage,  and 
frank  green  blossoms  of  three  petals  ;  yet  it  hides 
rank  poison  under  its  blunt  and  honest  face.  Peren- 
nial mercury  indeed  flourishes  just  now,  and  the  apple- 
green  spathes  of  the  wild  arum  peep,  pixy-like,  from 
every  dene  and  dingle,  every  hedgerow  and  covert- 
edge. 

The    green    flowers    possess    and   even   flaunt   an 
element    of    the    weird    to    my    thinking,    for    their 


GREEN   FLOWERS  39 

ways  are  hidden  from  all  but  the  close  seeker,  their 
properties  are  held  sinister,  and  often  mysterious 
are  their  manners  of  growth.  Botanists  take  delight 
in  discoveries  that  need  a  botanist  to  appreciate 
them ;  but  for  us  the  outward  shapes  and  super- 
ficial strangenesses  of  the  verdant  flowers  may  suffice. 
Thus,  from  the  arum  in  his  pale  or  speckled  toga, 
what  a  strange  transition  is  it  to  the  green  floweret 
of  the  butcher's -broom  that  I  find  presently  in  a 
wood.  Each  minute  blossom  clings  to  the  bosom 
of  the  parent  leaf,  like  a  baby  to  its  mother,  and 
thus  the  whole  dark,  prickly  shrub  is  starred  with 
light  in  the  sun,  and  brightened  even  under  grey 
March  winds  by  its  multitude  of  tiny  children.  Also 
hiding  under  the  forest,  set  in  a  scented  jewel  of  rich 
moss  and  ivy  at  some  streamlet's  edge,  I  found  the 
common  variety  of  chrysosplenium  or  golden  saxifrage. 
Mellow  and  lemon-green  are  his  small  blossoms,  and 
they  surmount  a  plant  of  delicate  and  beautiful  frame. 
Folks  make  a  salad  of  him  in  the  Vosges,  and  afore- 
time the  golden  saxifrage,  like  the  green  hellebore, 
was  accounted  a  remedy  for  melancholy.  To  eat  him 
in  this  connection  may  be  vain,  but  to  seek  and  find 
him  within  the  glades  of  a  Spring  wood  should 
hearten  you  ;  and  if  you  chance  upon  his  brother, 
with  alternate  leaves,  joyful  you  may  be,  because 
you  will  have  found  one  of  the  rarest  flowers  in 
Devon. 

Not  far  from  my   Chrysosplenium  another  dainty 
green  dweller  in  the  moist  seclusion  of  the   under- 


40  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

woods  twinkled  in  a  starry  constellation  on  the 
bank  of  a  stream.  Above  it  ivy  tumbled  over  a 
shelf  of  broken  earth  ;  beneath,  a  brook  twined  and 
rippled  and  babbled  of  blue  forget-me-nots  to  come. 
Here  dwelt  the  moschatel,  a  little  flower  named 
adoxa,  by  reason  of  her  humility  and  retiring  disposi- 
tion. And  looking  forward,  after  I  had  turned  and 
retraced  the  way,  I  saw  many  another  green  flower 
still  hid  in  the  bud,  or  maybe  not  yet  sprung  above 
the  earth.  Soon  ribes,  the  wild  currant,  will  be 
shaking  out  little  racemes  of  shallow  bells ;  soon 
wandering  madder's  small  blossoms  will  appear  where 
the  parent  climber  twines  with  a  thousand  fingers 
through  hedge  and  over  waste ;  presently  the  pale- 
green  inflorescence  of  the  maple  and  spindle  trees 
will  adorn  their  Spring  foliage ;  sweet  daphne  will 
spread  fragrance ;  the  spurges,  or  little-goods,  as 
generations  of  impatient  farmers  have  called  them, 
will  open  fantastic  blooms  upon  the  tilled  land  and 
by  the  wayside  ;  black  bryony  and  white  will  twist 
their  soft  tendrils  and  bear  small,  verdant  blossoms 
when  the  cuckoo  sings.  Later  in  the  year  the 
traveller's  joy  must  lift  pale  buds,  the  box  must 
bloom,  and  the  wormwood  deck  forgotten  corners 
and  dusty  patches  of  waste  land.  The  wild  hop, 
too,  with  its  sterile  stars  and  fertile  catkins  or 
cones,  will  beautify  each  high  summer  hour,  and 
many  another  rare  and  common  blossom — the  hare's 
ear,  herb  Paris,  lady's  mantle,  wood-sage,  nettle, 
pellitory  of  the  wall,  twayblade,  and  some  of  the  more 


GREEN   FLOWERS  41 

minute  Orchideae — will  await  the  finder  in  varied  garb 
of  malachite  or  olive,  beryl  or  aquamarine. 

Now  in  this  misty  March  hour  of  swelling  buds 
and  rising  sap,  I  passed  down  that  great  hill  again, 
while  sun  and  silver  rain  strove  for  mastery,  and 
bred  a  rainbow  from  their  strife.  Far  beneath 
my  standpoint  it  extended,  and  chance  ordered 
the  purple  and  gold  to  leap  from  one  side  of  a 
water-meadow  to  distant  woodlands  that  glowed 
behind  it  like  a  fairy  kingdom  built  of  gems.  Its 
keystone  was  set  against  dark  pavilions  of  unshed 
rain,  and,  rising  from  the  amber  of  a  young  withy 
bed,  the  arch  spanned  a  dozen  homesteads  ere 
its  southern  foot  fell  among  great  trees  that  stood  as 
sentinels  of  the  wood.  From  osier  to  elm  it  passed  ; 
from  the  frail  fabric  of  man's  cradle  to  the  wine-red 
timbers  that  build  his  coffin  swept  the  bow  across 
heaven — a  symbol  of  the  pathetic  and  eternal  hope 
knitted  into  this  fabric  of  conscious  existence ;  hope 
—the  leaven  of  humanity's  daily  bread  ;  the  beacon 
that  lights  many  an  eye,  warms  many  a  cold  heart 
upon  the  brief  and  stormy  journey  of  man's  days. 


"KING    O'    BUDS" 

HE  work  of  March  is  lovely  and  minute,  for 
it  deals  with  upspringing  of  seed-leaves, 
swelling  of  buds,  and  inflorescence  of  great 
trees.  There  is  a  red  haze  over  the  elms; 
the  traceries  of  the  silver  birch  thicken  ;  the  hazel's 
sterile  blossoms  dance  on  the  wind;  the  larch  is  studded 
with  rubies ;  the  catkins  of  the  alder  shine  russet  against 
her  naked  bough  ;  and  the  ash  prepares  bunches  of 
purple  flower-buds  within  their  black  cases.  Great 
sweetness  and  cleanliness  dominate  the  world  of  March, 
for  the  winter  winds  have  blown,  and  the  rains  have 
washed,  and  the  frost  has  probed  and  slain.  As  yet 
the  timid  beginnings  of  Spring  are  perfect  and  un- 
scarred.  Stipules  expand  swiftly.  The  joints  of  their 
armour  grow  pale  and  stretch  to  the  touch  of  the 
awakening  life.  The  fabric  of  the  leaf-case  is  re- 
vealed, and,  its  service  ended,  it  promises  soon  to 
fall  from  the  little  crinkled  clump  of  foliage  cuddled 
within.  Presently  April  will  wash  away  millions  of 
the  sheaths  and  casings ;  they  will  strew  every  wood- 
land glade  and  path ;  they  will  make  a  shining,  silver 
carpet,  where  bluebells  nod  under  beech  trees.  But 

42 


KING  O1   BUDS 


"KING   O'   BUDS"  43 

dead  auburn  beech  leaves  are  still  clinging  to  the 
arms  of  the  mother  that  knows  them  no  more,  still 
wailing  with  shrill  sorrow  to  the  March  wind,  still 
envying  the  round,  delicate,  ruddy  spikelets  that  hold 
Spring's  lovely  robe  where  Nature  is  busy  weaving  it 
upon  her  forest  looms. 

It  is  a  good  thing  to  see  in  the  deep  dingles 
those  most  trustful  flowers  that  open  their  eyes  in 
March  and  fearlessly  brave  his  blustering.  The 
moss-loving  sorrel's  drooping  pearl ;  the  violets — sky- 
blue  or  sparkling  white — whose  sweetness  only  fades 
with  their  little  lives  ;  the  primroses  in  all  their  downy, 
dewy  loveliness,  with  clusters  twinkling  through  the 
carpets  of  dead  leaves  in  ancient  woods — these  and 
the  daffodils  now  gladden  each  day,  though  the  sky  is 
hard  azure  and  the  wind  is  cold.  The  spurge-laurel's 
delicate  green  flower-clusters  hide  in  the  wood;  the 
blackthorn  frosts  the  naked  hedge  with  silver ;  the 
stars  of  the  colt's-foot  flame  beneath ;  and  in  the  water- 
marshes  the  mary-buds  are  winking  and  the  great 
butter-burr  making  ready. 

Now  the  red  earth,  awakening  to  the  sun  as  he 
climbs  higher  and  kisses  warmer,  bedecks  herself  in  a 
maiden  kirtle  of  new-born  humble  things  all  starred 
with  flowers.  There  is  a  stir  and  whispering  under 
dead  leaves,  there  is  a  dawn  of  life  filming  the  naked 
ground.  In  the  meadows  the  grasses  breathe  again, 
and  each  breath  wakes  the  heart  of  the  blade  and  sets 
the  sap  moving.  Little  folks,  that  carry  their  seed- 
cases  on  their  heads,  come  plodding  into  life  every- 


44  MY  DEVON   YEAR 

where.  Their  first  leaves  stretch  to  the  sunshine  ;  the 
case  they  have  lifted  out  of  the  earth  falls  away  from 
them  ;  they  are  born  to  their  place  in  the  Spring,  and 
each  green  atom  thrills  with  his  own  proper  message 
from  the  sun  that  shines  for  all.  There  is  a  charge 
flying  from  the  tree-tops  to  the  deep  anchors  of  the 
living  wood.  It  wakens  the  under- world  of  the  earth, 
and  from  the  gigantic  coiled  and  twisted  roots,  to  the 
least,  white,  infant  fibril,  all  know  that  Winter  has 
departed.  Last  year's  harvest  now  bursts  gloriously 
from  the  earth,  and  Nature,  remembering  her  Autumn, 
counts  the  germinating  hosts  like  a  gentle  miser.  Not 
one  seed  shall  be  forgotten ;  not  the  least  hopeful 
scrap  that  adds  its  tiny  emerald  to  the  diadem 
of  April  but  shall  win  her  due.  And  those  un- 
counted myriads  who  perish  untimely,  those  whose 
second  pair  of  leaves  will  never  open — even  these 
vanish  unmourned,  for  they  have  played  their  part 
also,  and  the  momentary  existence  of  them  is 
rounded  into  perfection  as  complete  as  the  mountain 
pine's,  as  full  as  that  of  the  oak,  whose  life  embraces 
a  thousand  harvests,  whose  foliage  has  sheltered 
fifty  generations  of  man. 

Countless  dainty  things  cry  to  be  chronicled  at  this 
season,  and  here  on  the  confines,  between  the  months, 
is  a  glad  hour  full  of  bird  music,  haunted  by  poets. 
But  if  the  natural  things  of  the  springtime  are  better 
sung  than  told,  it  is  also  certain  that  they  are  better 
seen  than  sung ;  for  now  the  highways  and  hedges 
themselves  are  calling ;  the  woods  and  hills  and  river- 


"KING   O'   BUDS"  45 

brinks  invite  all  men  with  living  poetry  that  buds  and 
blossoms. 

"  Hail,  riotous  March,  thou  jovial  King  o*  buds, 
Whose  subjects,  clad  in  amber  and  in  gold, 
Yet  to  their  winter  wear  uncertain  cleave 
And  lie  snug  hid  i'  the  stipule ;  swiftly  bring 
Our  April  princess  of  the  silver  tears, 
To  loosen  at  a  touch  the  trembling  green, 
And  smooth  each  curling  leaflet  with  a  kiss. 


Then  pants  the  western  wind,  whose  misty  breath 
Inhaled  along  the  infinite  Atlantic, 
Now  mingling  with  the  sunshine  on  the  rain, 
And  songs  of  hope  that  throb  from  vernal  woods, 
Doth  bear  the  pure  and  primrose-scented  Spring 
Into  my  heart." 


GRANITE    AND    SORREL 

|O  near  was  the  sky  that  the  high  tops  of 
the  forest  seemed  to  support  it  on  their 
million  fingers,  to  prick  the  storm-cloud 
above,  burst  the  great  reservoirs  and  scatter 
rain.  I  passed  under  ancient  timber  of  the 
sort  that  indicates  by  its  relations — tree  to  tree  and 
mass  to  mass — Nature's  own  planting  rather  than  that 
of  man.  Indeed,  these  spacious  oaken  forests  were 
sown  before  the  Conquest,  for  here  one  stands  under 
the  fruit  of  trees  that  first  bourgeoned  a  thousand 
years  ago. 

I  see  them — those  mediaeval  oaks — in  my  mind's 
eye,  and  they  are  sheltering  a  mail-clad  knight  and 
his  heavy  steed.  Who  shall  guess  what  brilliant  train 
followed  him  ?  But  hither  he  came,  this  Norman  from 
the  victorious  advent  of  his  master ;  for  the  First 
William,  who  knew  how  to  reward  his  servants,  had 
already  wrested  good  miles  of  Devon  from  their 
Saxon  owners,  that  those  who  made  him  Conqueror 
at  Hastings  might  henceforth  share  his  addition.  To 
Radulphus  de  la  Pomerio,  lord  of  the  Norman  "  Castle 
of  the  Orchard,"  accrued  eight-and-fifty  Devon  lord- 
ships ;  and  Beri,  "the  walled  town,"  he  chose  as  the 

46 


GRANITE  AND  SORREL 


GRANITE   AND   SORREL  47 

seat  of  his  barony  or  honour.  On  such  a  day  mayhap 
he  sought  within  the  glens  and  forests  of  that  wild 
region  for  a  site  whereon  his  castle  should  rise ;  on 
such  a  day,  with  the  April  gold  gleaming  between  the 
showers,  with  the  ripe  catkins  of  the  hazel  shedding 
their  pollen  on  his  horse's  chamfron,  with  the  new- 
born glory  of  the  larches  scenting  the  air,  and  bud 
breaking  on  oak  and  elm,  he  may  have  moved  stoutly 
forward  while  he  crushed  the  wood  anemones  and 
primroses  under  his  horse's  feet,  and  wetted  with 
sweet  sap  and  the  colourless  blood  of  spring  flowers 
those  ironshod  hoofs  that  not  long  before  were  stamp- 
ing life  out  of  wounded  men. 

The  thrushes  sang  then  as  now,  and  the  frightened 
blackbird  flew  before  with  an  alarm-cry  as  shrill  as 
the  jolt  and  clink  of  chain  on  mail.  Forward  passed 
Ralph  and  his  cavalcade,  where  the  ivy  hid  red  ridges 
of  broken  earth,  rotting  wood,  and  dead  fern ;  and 
then  a  little  plateau  opened  in  the  forest — a  lime- 
stone crag  jutted  on  the  hill,  and  the  Norman  eagle 
cast  his  eyes  to  right  and  left,  above  and  below, 
estimated  the  strength  of  the  position  with  the  quick 
judgment  of  a  man  of  war,  saw  that  it  was  good, 
and  cried  that  here  his  eyrie  should  presently  be 
built.  So  the  banner,  with  the  Pomeroy  lion  upon 
it,  was  planted  in  the  wood ;  the  sleep  of  that  primeval 
forest  departed,  and  anon,  wrought  of  limestone  and 
granite,  arose  a  grim  pile,  squat  and  stern,  with  a 
thousand  eyes  from  which  were  ever  ready  to  dart 
the  crossbow's  bolt,  with  watch  towers  and  great 


48  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

ramparts — a  palace  and  a  fortress  built  on  the  rock, 
and,  perhaps  in  their  owner's  view,  destined  to  endure 
as  long  as  their  foundations. 

The  ruins  of  the  Norman's  work  still  stand  and 
circle  others  of  a  date  later  by  five  hundred  years. 
During  that  period  the  descendants  of  the  Conqueror's 
friend  enjoyed  their  possessions,  exercised  baronial 
rights,  and  retained  the  favour  of  their  princes.  In 
the  fourteenth  century  Nicholas  Pomeroy  was  High 
Sheriff  of  Devon  ;  Sir  Thomas  also  filled  the  Shriev- 
alty, and  his  son  enjoyed  like  high  office  after  him. 
Others  followed,  and  the  family  continued  to  be  a 
power  in  the  land  until  1549,  when  Devon  opposed 
the  "Act  for  Reforming  the  Church  Service"  tooth 
and  nail,  and  many  of  the  leading  nobles  of  the  county 
were  enjoined  to  pacify  the  common  folk  "by  gentle 
means,  if  possible,  but  others,  if  necessary." 

Among  the  malcontents  was  the  reigning  lord  of 
Pomeroy,  a  man  of  military  knowledge  and  prowess. 
He  had  followed  the  wars  with  distinction  in  France 
during  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII.,  and  perchance,  like 
many  military  veterans  of  a  later  date,  took  strong 
ground  on  all  questions  involving  his  creed,  and  held 
tolerance  no  virtue.  Him  the  discontented  gentry 
elected  their  leader,  and  after  preliminary  successes, 
the  knight  lost  the  day  at  Clist  Heath,  nigh  Exeter, 
yet  retained  sufficient  interest  at  Court  to  escape  with 
his  hot  head  on  his  shoulders.  But  the  last  of  the 
Pomeroys  who  ever  lorded  it  at  Berry  was  he,  and 
whether  he  compounded  for  his  life  by  yielding  up 


GRANITE   AND   SORREL  49 

lands  and  castle,  or  whether  the  subsequent  owners 
obtained  Berry  by  grant  or  purchase  from  the  Crown 
after  sequestration,  matters  not.  Certain  only  it  is 
that  to  the  House  of  Seymour  the  old  fortalice  now 
passed,  and  the  Elizabethan  portion  of  the  ruins 
soon  afterwards  arose  within  the  older  building. 
Sir  Edward — a  descendant  of  the  Protector — when 
King  William  III.  remarked  to  him:  "I  believe 
you  are  of  the  family  of  the  Duke  of  Somerset  ? " 
replied  instantly  :  "  Pardon,  sir ;  the  Duke  of  Somerset 
is  of  my  family."  This  haughty  gentleman  was  the 
last  of  the  race  who  dwelt  in  Berry  Pomeroy  ;  but  the 
Castle  still  belongs  to  his  family,  and  Berry  makes 
this  unique  boast  :  that  since  the  Conquest  it  has 
changed  hands  but  once. 

The  fabric  of  Seymour's  building  was  never  com- 
pleted, but  enough  of  it  remains  to  offer  an  object  of 
solemnity,  a  lesson  in  grey  stones  ;  while  the  earlier 
fragments  of  the  first  fortress,  including  the  south 
front,  the  main  entrance,  the  pillared  chamber  above 
it,  and  the  north  wing  of  the  quadrangle  are  also 
a  spectacle  sufficiently  splendid,  their  withered  age 
all  turned  to  harmony  in  the  grey  and  green  habili- 
ments of  Time. 

Ivy  crowns  every  turret  and  shattered  wall,  twists 
countless  fingers  into  the  rotting  mortar,  winds  in 
huge,  hydra-like  convolutions  through  the  empty 
sockets  of  the  windows.  Giant  limbs  of  it  are 
slowly  perishing  everywhere,  and  younger  ones 
succeeding  them.  Along  the  tattered  battlements 


50  MY  DEVON   YEAR 

and  broken  archways  many  grasses  grow  high  and 
rank ;  wild  geraniums  and  pennywort,  ferns  and  tough- 
rooted  shrubs,  also  spring  strongly;  and  Nature's  sure 
hand  wears  the  adamant  away  with  her  tender, 
twining,  invincible  rootlets. 

The  Castle  will  presently  vanish,  but  these  eternal 
green  things  die  not.  The  granite,  indeed,  must 
go ;  the  pearls  of  the  wood  sorrel,  nodding  dewy  on 
their  stalks  above  the  verdant  beauty  of  the  trefoil 
leaves — the  tiny,  tremulous,  purple-veined  chalices  of 
this  most  fragile  thing,  that  Rodolphus  trampled 
yesterday  and  I  pluck  to-day — these  loved  treasures 
of  the  Mother  of  Flowers  endure  from  generation  to 
generation,  and  are  immortal.  To  them  the  life  of 
Berry  Pomeroy  is  the  life  of  a  cloud  palace  in  a  summer 
storm.  They  come  and  depart  with  each  glittering 
April ;  and  they  did  so  before  man  learnt  to  take  his 
hands  from  earth  and  stand  upright.  Ere  this  grey 
mushroom  castle  sprang  into  being  at  the  will  of  a 
soldier  beneath  the  trowels  of  a  conquered  race,  they 
twinkled  and  trembled  and  shook  the  warm  rain  out 
of  their  little  eyes  ;  and  when  Berry  has  vanished 
and  the  jackdaws  have  sought  another  home,  when 
the  old  plateau  of  the  wood  has  forgotten  that  pro- 
digious load  set  on  it  by  the  stranger,  and  creeping 
ivy  hides  a  mound  of  dust,  then  shall  the  emerald 
trinities  of  dainty  foliage  still  spread  and  open  and 
the  blossoms  still  shine  like  snowflakes  through  the 
woods  to  star  each  dingle  and  mossy  haunt  of  shy 
things. 


GRANITE   AND  SORREL  51 

The  granite  returns  to  its  particles,  though  un- 
numbered ages  shall  be  demanded  for  its  destruc- 
tion, but  the  wood-sorrel  survives  the  grey  centuries, 
and  laughs  at  Time.  The  granite  knows  neither 
Spring  nor  Summer ;  to  his  fretted  face,  where  dwell 
golden  lichens  and  the  ebony  and  silver  life  that  sucks 
existence  from  stone,  the  spring  rain  means  only 
deathly  certainty  of  dropping  water.  Wild  autumn 
winds,  that  send  the  gold  of  the  woods  whirling  round 
his  grey  skull,  also  indicate  the  end,  and  foreshadow 
ultimate  tempests  that  shall  help  to  lay  all  low ;  while 
the  steel-thrust  of  the  frost,  the  soft  folds  of  the  green 
ivy,  the  sappy  fingers  of  root-life,  alike  by  harsh 
means  and  gentle,  combine  to  compass  the  inevitable 
end.  The  ruin  is  a  dead  skeleton.  His  bones 
were  torn  in  ages  past  from  the  living  rock,  and 
they  have  covered  Nature's  prime  enemy  and  hidden 
him  from  her  anger  for  a  little  while.  Man  built 
this  ruin,  and  now  the  powers  of  the  air  are  turned 
against  granite  wall  and  lancet  window,  crumbling 
keep  and  shaking  tower.  But  unnumbered  blossoms 
hide  the  busy  forces  combining  to  destroy ;  pale 
uprising  wind-flowers  nod  in  the  grass  that  was 
a  courtyard ;  budding  briars,  clustered  primroses, 
violets,  daisies,  celandines,  and  a  thousand  other 
buds  and  stars  and  chalices  of  the  unfolding  year 
dapple  the  granite,  and  twinkle  from  its  shattered 
heights.  These  rule  the  spring  rain  and  make  the 
sun  in  heaven  do  them  service.  For  them  is  the 
dance  of  the  seasons ;  they  are  the  eternal  things  of 


52  MY  DEVON  YEAR 

the  green  wood;  and  they  will  shine  and  laugh,  as 
now,  at  the  returning  cuckoo's  music,  and,  as  now, 
gladden  the  eyes  of  little  children  when  these  old 
stones  of  Berry  Castle,  and  the  hand  that  writes  of 
them,  and  the  page  that  records,  are  alike  forgotten 
dust. 


BUDBREAK 


BUD-BREAK 

NCE  more  eyes,  weary  with  watching, 
brighten  and  welcome  back  the  vernal 
pomp ;  once  more  life  wakens,  while  the 
blood  of  man  and  the  sap  of  the  forest 
flow  gloriously.  You  shall  note  a  rivalry  in  the 
grand,  far-flung,  universal  rush  of  the  green ;  yet  for 
the  most  part  it  would  appear  that  in  all  localities 
like  order  prevails,  that  the  bud  breaks  in  similar 
rotation  upon  every  tree. 

Of  oak  and  ash,  indeed,  the  adage  hath  it  that 
sometimes  one,  sometimes  the  other  is  the  earlier 
to  produce  a  new  season's  foliage,  and  country  wise- 
acres hold  stoutly  to  it  that  should  the  ash  come 
out  before  the  oak,  a  wet  Summer  may  be  counted 
upon  with  certainty ;  while  others  are  of  a  contrary 
opinion.  But  whereas  the  ash  usually  shakes  forth 
its  strange  inflorescence — grape-purple  in  the  bud — 
before  the  oak  flowers,  yet  in  my  experience  the  latter 
is  the  first  in  leaf,  though  its  bright  lemon  catkins 
follow  the  foliage.  Now  the  buds  of  the  horse- 
chestnut  are  at  last  open ;  the  shining  stipules, 
watched  through  wintertime,  have  fluttered  to  earth 
like  beetle-shards,  and  the  crinkled  green  can  be 

53 


54  MY  DEVON  YEAR 

almost  seen  unfolding,  expanding,  and  opening  its 
fingers  round  the  tiny  germs  of  the  blossoms  that 
will  soon  lift  their  pink  or  ivory  spires  into  the  sun- 
shine and  cool  green  nights  of  May. 

Both  elms  are  not  far  behind,  and  their  blossoms 
fall  in  showers,  and  their  outlines,  thickened  in  early 
March  with  a  million  flowers,  ruddy  on  the  more 
common  tree  and  paler  upon  the  wych  elm,  now 
for  a  moment  grow  into  winter  delicacy  again  before 
the  leaf-buds  break  on  the  bole,  then  climb  aloft  and 
carry  green  to  every  crown.  Suckers  and  saplings 
at  each  tree-foot  leap  first  into  life  ;  every  twig  and 
sprig  of  the  hedgerow  about  the  giant  trunk  twinkles 
into  leaf  and  joins  the  hawthorn,  long  since  brushed 
with  opening  buds.  Then  the  lowermost  branches 
of  the  parent  elm  itself  burst  into  foliage,  and  ere 
the  storm-thrush  has  hatched  her  eggs,  high  perched 
in  a  nest  at  the  first  great  fork  of  the  tree,  a  veil  of 
growing  green  foams  and  billows  upwards  on  the  tide 
of  the  sap  to  the  kiss  of  the  sun.  So  the  world 
wakes  again,  and  unnumbered  new-born  leaves 
murmur  out  the  immemorial  music  of  the  wind,  and 
answer  spring  showers  with  thanksgiving. 

Of  countless  lesser  things  each  hedge  and  ditch 
and  ancient  covert-side  is  proud  possessor.  The  annual 
flowers,  whose  seed-buds  long  since  broke  naked 
earth  in  Winter,  now  proclaim  their  identity  to  the 
least  skilled  in  such  matters.  A  riot  and  struggle 
of  life  crowds  over  the  waste  places,  and  its  battle 
is  all  beauty  seen  upon  the  surface,  all  strife  if  a  man 


BUD-BREAK  55 

looks  deeper  into  the  embryo  death  hidden  under 
leaves,  waiting  in  egg  and  in  earth  for  each  young 
thing  unfolding.  Woodbines  contrast  their  jade- 
green  buds  with  the  fresher  verdancy  of  the  wild 
roses'  foliage ;  early  speedwells  already  open  blue 
eyes  in  the  medley ;  galiums  twine  their  tresses 
through  the  texture  of  the  hedge ;  wild  arums  splash 
the  way  with  sprawling  green  ;  and  at  each  fern's 
heart  are  little  crosiers  of  silver  that  await  only  one 
warm  shower  to  uncurl  the  frond.  Ivy  is  budding ; 
lusty  umbel-bearers  expand  their  vigorous  foliage ; 
potentilla  mimics  the  wild  strawberry's  blossom ; 
violets,  purple  and  white,  glimmer  amongst  the  green. 
The  amber  stipules  of  the  oak  are  swelling  and 
growing  paler ;  the  black  buds  of  the  ash  show  no 
softening  pallor  as  yet,  although  its  flower-buds  are 
open  and  the  inflorescence  is  active ;  the  sycamores 
and  spindles  begin  to  break,  but  the  maple  is  tardy 
and  the  dogwood  still  asleep.  The  wayfaring  tree 
has  brownish  leaves  out,  and  its  round  heads  of 
blossom,  presently  to  gladden  each  summer  hedge- 
row, are  visible,  huddled  in  downy  clusters  and  hidden 
in  no  sheltering  sheath.  The  limes  are  gemmed  with 
delicate  leaves,  and  the  hazel  and  the  alder  are  making 
ready ;  but  the  sallow  folk — osiers  and  willows — are  all 
bedecked  with  silver  and  gold,  and  too  overjoyed  at 
their  shining  tassels  and  catkins  to  think  as  yet  of 
leafage.  The  poplars  also — the  aspen,  the  white,  and 
the  black — are  concerned  with  blossom ;  though  the 
white  poplar's  pale  foliage  is  also  near  at  hand. 


56  MY  DEVON   YEAR 

The  yew  is  dusted  with  gold,  and  where  the  birds 
hop  in  and  out,  little  clouds  of  pollen  from  the  yellow 
inflorescence  puff  into  the  air.  The  pines  are  flower- 
ing also,  both  those  of  Scotland  and  of  Norway ; 
while  of  all  noble  cone-bearers  at  this  hour  larches 
are  fairest,  for  they  pitch  the  very  tents  and  pavilions 
of  young  Spring  along  the  good  red  earth,  and 
shake  out  their  emeralds  in  a  shower  till  the  eye 
and  heart  are  intoxicated  with  their  green.  A  larch 
is  always  lovely,  from  winter  nakedness  to  spring 
verdure,  from  summer  opulence  of  colour  to  pallid 
gold  of  Autumn.  Soon  the  fertile  catkins  will  shine 
upon  it  like  rubies,  and  the  verdure  will  deepen  to  the 
full  tone  of  Summer.  Few  who  love  the  tree  re- 
member that  it  is  almost  among  the  last  of  notable 
strangers  to  win  a  welcome  here.  In  1629  an 
occasional  keen  lover  of  forest  trees  nursed  some 
infant  larches  as  a  rare  exotic  treasure  in  the  garden  ; 
but  not  until  early  in  1700  was  this  conifer  much 
grown  in  England  for  his  manifold  virtues.  In  Scot- 
land the  first  larches  were  planted  during  1727  by 
the  Duke  of  Athole  at  Dunkeld,  and  between  that 
date  and  1827,  it  is  declared  that  fourteen  million 
of  them  were  set  upon  the  Athole  estates  alone. 
Your  larch  has  philosophic  habits,  and  great,  genial 
goodness  of  character.  He  is  happy  anywhere  on 
sloping  ground  reasonably  drained,  and  will  prosper 
upon  a  Devon  hillside  with  content  as  complete  as 
in  his  home,  where  he  fledges  the  Alpine  fastnesses. 
Larches  flourish  at  a  greater  elevation  than  the  pine, 


BUD-BREAK  57 

though  firs  are  still  more  hardy  ;  while  of  the  tree's 
growth  it  is  amazing,  and  in  the  South  of  England 
a  larch,  happily  situated,  will  often  attain  a  height  of 
five-and-twenty  feet  in  ten  years. 

From  this  day  of  soft  wind  and  busy  bud,  one 
may  look  forward  and  paint  the  boughs  and  branches 
with  their  full  glory.  There  will  come  a  magical  hour 
presently  when  the  last  leaf  has  rippled  into  its  place, 
and  the  song  of  the  wood  is  complete,  when  the 
million  leaves  clap  their  little  hands,  and  Summer 
is  at  the  door. 


MARBLE    CLIFFS 

county  is  richer  in  splendour  of  great  pre- 
cipices looking  out  upon  broad  and  narrow 
seas  than  this  our  Devon  ;  but  though  the 
southern  cliffs  lack  that  awful  austerity  and 
abiding  gloom  of  the  northern  crags,  though  their 
pinnacles  and  serrated  edges  and  escarpments  are  but 
pigmies  in  altitude  when  compared  with  the  huge  fore- 
heads that  frown  upon  the  Atlantic  from  Welcombe 
to  the  Foreland,  yet  Nature  has  compensated  their 
shortcomings  of  size,  and  bestowed  upon  them  a 
beauty  and  an  infinite  variety  of  colour  and  form  not 
met  with  where  the  great  ocean  waves  break  and 
thunder  at  their  journey's  end.  There,  even  though 
the  sea  has  slept  for  many  summer  days,  and  sinks 
and  rises  with  peace  as  profound  and  suggestive  as 
the  slumber  of  a  giant,  the  accustomed  striving  and 
unrest  are  reflected  in  the  dark  precipices  above 
it,  in  the  tremendous  acclivities  and  the  prevalent 
geological  formation  of  huge  and  gloomy  planes  that 
suck  up  direct  sunshine,  as  a  sponge  soaks  liquid,  and 
are  nothing  brightened.  They  stare,  these  huge  cliff- 
faces,  with  blind  eyes  into  the  West;  they  call  for 
sad  human  hearts  to  chime  with  their  sobriety ; 

58 


MARBLE    CLIFFS  59 

they  breathe  of  ceaseless  war,  of  agonised  battle  with 
the  West  wind  and  all  its  unnumbered  hosts  of  the 
sea.  Setting  sunlight  gilds  their  slaty  shale,  and 
brightens  it  into  polished  ebony  and  into  gold ;  they 
frown  at  the  evening  light  until  its  glory  dies  and 
the  foam-ridges  glimmer  grey ;  then  familiar  darkness 
huddles  down  upon  them,  and  they  wait  alert,  watch- 
ful, for  the  first  sigh  of  the  awakened  enemy,  the  first 
throb  and  spout  of  some  giant  wave  at  their  feet. 
These  cliffs  impress  some  spirits  with  aversion,  yet 
from  others  they  win  such  sympathy  in  their  struggle 
as  Prometheus  himself  won,  but  seldom  the  scorched 
and  blasted  crags  of  Caucasus  that  made  his  pillow. 

From  our  black  northern  precipices  to  wander  South, 
where  sandstone  stains  the  Channel  with  its  cheerful 
ruddiness,  or  marble  limestone  spreads  in  shining 
pebble  beaches,  is  to  change  every  phase  of  outlook ; 
for  cliffs  and  headlands  and  upspringing  peaks  all 
differ  as  much  in  quality  and  in  power  of  suggestion 
as  the  seas  that  sweep  and  roar  in  storm,  or  tinkle  and 
ripple  on  summer  days  about  them. 

Less  force  and  more  beauty  than  exists  upon  the 
North  coast  shall  be  found  where  limestone  rises  and 
sheds  an  opalescent  milky  light  into  the  blue  water, 
where  placid  tides  slowly  wash  away  and  solve  the 
stone.  Here  are  the  very  habitations  and  play- 
grounds of  sunbeams,  that  leap  and  twinkle  among 
the  networks  of  delicate  clefts  and  crannies  woven 
into  a  pattern  on  the  rock-faces,  that  nestle  under 
the  shadows  or  laugh  along  the  stairways  and  touch 


6o  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

infant  gulls  with  brightness,  where  they  squat  together 
and  discuss  the  world,  and  look  with  young  but  un- 
fearful  eyes  at  the  friendly  air  soon  to  support  earliest 
flutterings. 

All  hues  of  gold  and  silver  are  here,  with  such 
reflections  from  each  sun-tipped  wavelet  of  the  sea 
as  only  marble  can  glean  and  give  again.  The 
foam  rises  and  falls  like  a  fringe  of  pearls  about 
each  jutting  promontory  or  detached  rock  ;  high- 
water  mark  is  defined  by  a  band  of  darkness  fading 
to  russet,  where  seaweeds  grow  that  love  both  water 
and  air ;  while  above,  springing  to  some  graceful 
point  or  needle  of  shining  stone,  the  marble  rises 
with  proportions  so  true,  and  general  distribution  of 
parts  so  harmonious  in  their  relations  to  the  mass, 
that  cliffs  I  know  as  friends  seem  to  me  rather  a  sort 
of  noble  vessels  floating  upon  the  sea  than  adamantine 
barriers  set  to  oppose  it.  Light  inspires  them  with 
an  apparent  levity.  Their  crags  and  sunny  scarps 
seem  wrought  of  imponderable  pearly  surfaces,  that 
might  be  spread  to  the  wind  or  furled  until  another 
sunrise,  when  the  day  is  done  and  the  evening  twi- 
light leaves  them  grey  again. 

A  dance  of  colour  such  as  artists  love  is  spread 
here  from  the  dawn  hour  onward.  The  chalk  cliffs 
easterly  can  tell  no  such  rainbow  story ;  the  red  sand- 
stone is,  for  the  most  part,  impassive  and  expression- 
less, though  of  a  genial  brilliancy  against  blue  sky 
in  sunshine,  and  not  devoid  of  character  when  com- 
bined with  other  rock  in  conglomerate  forms ;  but  the 


MARBLE   CLIFFS  61 

marble  is  sovereign  among  those  giants  who  clasp 
hands  to  make  the  crust  and  skeleton  of  the  round 
earth.  It  is  always  beautiful.  Time  touches  it  only 
to  new  splendours  of  form,  and  a  thousand  sunrises 
spread  thereon  shall  each  write  a  new  glory,  if  one 
can  but  read  the  line  of  it,  as  every  word  flames  out 
from  some  soft  radiance  into  shadow — from  shadow 
back  again  to  light. 

All  flowers  may  find  their  colours  here,  and  the 
cliffs  can  bud  and  blossom  at  the  sun's  command 
into  a  whole  gamut  of  tones  and  undertones  ranging 
through  the  metals  to  the  gems ;  from  the  gleam  and 
glow  of  a  fire-opal  to  the  pure  blue  of  turquoise, 
where  the  sea-light  is  thrown  up  against  a  shadow ; 
from  the  ruddy  iron  flush  in  veins,  and  percolated 
streams  and  washes,  to  the  dun  and  the  grey  of  wide 
surfaces,  swept  and  dimmed  by  microscopic  growths. 

Flowers  unnumbered  love  the  limestone,  and 
some  there  are  that  cannot  live  away  from  it. 
Samphires  make  a  chrysoprase  lacework  against  the 
grey,  where  each  finds  a  cleft  to  shake  forth  his 
serrated  foliage  and  yellow  umbel ;  the  sea  silene 
lights  up  cliff-edge  and  cranny  with  tender  flowers 
and  grey-green  foliage ;  the  pellitory,  though  it  best 
loves  ruined  masonry,  abides  here  also;  and  the  thrift 
gems  its  sturdy  cushions  of  green  with  countless  little 
pink  pearls  of  blossom  that  shine  out  a  soft,  pure,  rose 
against  the  stone.  Sedums  also  flourish,  and  the  sea- 
gulls crop  them  green  for  their  own  needs.  The  nests 
that  I  have  found  in  such  places  are  built  of  dead 


62  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

grass,  twigs,  and  feathers,  banked  and  strengthened 
somewhat  by  the  stonecrops  and  occasional  scurvy- 
grass,  also  plucked  green,  and  woven  into  the  fabric. 
Heavily-mottled  eggs  of  dark-brown  hues  lie  here, 
and  as  one  climbs  along  the  ledges,  with  hands  in 
the  tussocks  of  the  sea-pink,  great  birds,  white 
and  grey,  cry  danger  from  lemon-coloured  bills, 
and  mew  aloud  their  fear,  with  notes  that  echo 
musical  against  the  cliffs.  Here  they  perch  and  make 
proper  finials  to  the  wild  peaks  and  pillars  ;  here  they 
fling  themselves  out  against  the  air  and  slide  away 
seaward ;  here  they  dot  the  smooth  green  water  below, 
and  lift  up  their  voices  together  against  fancied  wrongs. 
And  sitting  on  a  marble  throne  upon  some  lofty 
cliff,  as  now  I  do,  a  man  may  call  himself  king,  and 
these  his  subjects.  Fearful  and  distrustful  they  are, 
conscious  of  intrusion,  eloquent  of  outrage  done  ;  even 
as  we  cry  against  the  fate  that  intrudes  upon  our 
secure  castle,  or  shatters  our  premeditated  plan.  We 
lament  likewise,  and  lift  complaining  voices  against 
the  dark  figure  whose  shadow  suddenly  strikes  a 
chill  upon  our  nests  ;  and  we  view  the  changes  and 
chances  of  life  as  the  gulls,  having  no  discrimination, 
regard  any  human  oncoming.  Neither  can  we  appraise 
the  ultimate  end  and  aim  of  these  world-forces  with 
estimate  more  accurate  than  that  with  which  these 
birds  judge  me,  when  I,  an  unwinged,  untrusted  thing, 
gaze  upon  the  secrets  of  their  homes  in  these  dawn- 
facing  cliffs. 


GATES    OF    THE    MORNING 


HE  texture  of  great  moors  is  mysteriously 
changed  at  dawn,  and  their  fabric  in  this 
hour  often  shines  under  the  risen  sun  as 
though  sown  with  pearls.  Thus,  I  saw 
Dartmoor  but  yesterday,  the  hour  then  being  five,  the 
sun,  like  a  mighty  lamp,  hanging  low  above  the  tors. 
Around  me  granite  rose,  and  ruined  homes  of  the  old 
stone-men  lay  on  the  hand  of  Time,  and  rivers  lifted 
their  voices  in  the  valley  beneath. 

At  that  hour  the  mother-o'-mist  wandered  with 
many  a  trip  and  turn  and  soft,  sudden  footstep  over 
the  crowns  of  the  land ;  then,  arising,  she  spread 
rosy  wings  into  the  blue,  and  dislimned,  and  vanished 
as  the  sun  kissed  her.  Water  gleamed  along  the 
wide  marshes,  and  outlined  the  black  peat  ridges  with 
light ;  all  the  world  glimmered  under  sparkling 
moisture  born  from  a  starry  night  and  a  temperature 
below  dewpoint ;  and  every  blade  of  the  grasses, 
every  humble  growth  upon  the  stone  wall,  every  little 
budding  rush  and  sedge  held  up  its  proper  jewel  to 
the  sun. 

Man  still  slept,  but  the  world  had  long  wakened, 
save  for  him.  The  mares  and  foals,  sheep  and  lambs 

63 


64  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

wandered  in  the  dew,  and  the  mothers  raised  shining 
muzzles  from  the  sweet  grasses ;  but  the  noses  of  the 
little  ones  were  dry,  for  they  had  breakfasted  off 
milk  alone.  This  waking  world  was  full  of  new-born 
things  and  anxious  parents  tending  on  them.  Upon 
every  wall  sat  birds  with  insects  in  their  bills  for 
fledglings ;  here  a  wheat-ear  dipped  and  jerked ;  here 
a  yellow-hammer  sang  his  mournful -sounding  song; 
and  in  the  bogs,  where  last  year's  rushes  stood  sere 
above  silver  pools,  the  plovers  mewed  like  kittens,  and 
swooped  and  tumbled.  There  is  a  glance  of  black 
and  white  as  the  bird  descends,  and  a  single  spot  of 
white  remains  where  he  alights  with  uplifted  pinions  ; 
then  his  dark  wing  comes  down  over  the  bright  side- 
feathers,  and  he  vanishes.  A  curlew  wheeled  in 
curves,  uttering  wild,  bubbling  protests  at  intrusion  of 
a  human  presence  upon  his  world,  and  above  him  the 
larks  shrilled  to  the  day;  and  the  plovers,  now  uniting, 
drove  away  a  sinister  crow  from  their  nurseries. 

The  morning  wind  came  scented  over  miles  of 
the  greater  furze ;  the  rush -beds  likewise  yielded 
their  savour,  and  along  a  brook  the  river -growths 
exhaled  sweetness.  Here,  too,  beside  a  tributary 
of  Dart,  the  broom  shook  out  yellow  spears  above 
dark  green  foliage  ;  the  woodrush  hung  his  flowers  ; 
mary-buds  gleamed  in  a  lake  that  reflected  their 
own  gold  with  blue  sky  and  rosy  cloud ;  and  the 
marsh-violets  twinkled  more  humbly  beneath  them 
to  find  their  images  in  the  river  also.  Upon  the 
water,  procumbent  grasses  made  a  mesh  to  catch 


GATES   OF  THE   MORNING  65 

dawn  light,  pond-weeds  trailed  their  new-born  leaves 
beneath,  and  the  sun  flooded  the  heart  of  that  singing 
stream  with  clear  colour — amber  and  agate  and  cherry- 
red — where  it  struck  upon  submerged  banks  of  peat. 
Along  the  margins  of  the  stream,  ivy-leaved  crowfoot 
turned  little  white  faces  to  the  morning ;  and  the 
flowers  were  thrones  for  lustrous,  ephemeral  things, 
with  wings  of  gauze  and  golden  eyes,  that  also  blessed 
the  only  sun  they  would  know.  From  fleeting  blossom 
and  fragile  midge  my  sight  passed  directly  along  half 
a  league  of  lonely  ridges  to  Believer's  turrets  and 
granite  fortresses  where  that  great  tor  dominated  the 
land.  He,  indeed,  seemed  like  to  witness  a  million 
more  such  sunrises — to  shelter  the  mist  and  the  grey 
lichens  till  the  end  of  the  world ;  but  my  part  was 
with  the  insect  and  the  flower.  I  looked  up  at  the 
giant's  head,  dark  against  the  morning,  for  once  rested 
content  with  my  small  parcel  of  time,  nor  grudged 
him  one  of  all  his  centuries. 

The  water  sang  very  placidly,  and  purred  to  the 
green  things  anchored  in  it,  and  the  light  lingered 
much  here,  streaked  each  rush  with  brightness,  trans- 
formed each  blossom  into  a  fairy  cup,  into  a  jewel 
of  gold,  or  silver,  or  pure  turquoise,  where  speedwells 
and  forget-me-nots  shone  like  the  sky. 

The  old  bridge  passed  through  a  dawn  phase  also, 
and  existed  through  that  wonderful  hour  as  though 
every  fragment  understood.  His  clefts  and  crannies 
sparkled  out  with  stonecrops  and  the  young  fronds 
of  the  spleenwort.  These  leapt  in  little  aigrettes  of 
F 


66  MY  DEVON   YEAR 

new  green  from  the  grey ;  and  mosses  brightened 
the  masonry  ;  while  from  the  river,  sunlight,  reflected 
sharply,  made  gleaming  tremor  upon  the  bridge,  like 
the  shimmering  dance  of  hot  air. 

The  unutterable  freshness  and  sweetness  of  the 
dawn  touches  man's  spirit  as  surely  and  as  obviously 
as  it  heartens  the  awakened  bird  and  beast.  These 
all  welcome  the  warm  ray  upon  their  fur  or  feathers, 
for  it  beats  through  hide  and  down,  through  the 
plumage  of  the  river-fowl,  through  the  flax  of  the 
coney ;  and  it  gets  to  the  hearts  of  the  wild  things, 
so  that  they  lift  up  their  voices  and  fly  to  meet 
the  great  sun,  or  kick  their  heels  into  the  air 
and  leap  for  joy  that  another  day  has  come,  with  good 
store  of  food  and  water  and  congenial  companions  to 
share  happiness. 

The  martins  bathe  and  drink  and  wheel  in  airy 
circles  and  sudden  loops ;  the  water -spiders  leap 
along  their  element ;  the  flies  dance  in  the  proper 
patterns  woven  for  them  by  Nature,  and  from 
which  they  depart  not ;  trout  begin  to  rise,  and 
around  them  the  sun  flings  golden  circles  into  the 
water,  that  widen  till  they  meet  the  ruffle  of  the  wind. 
The  air  is  crystal,  even  as  the  water  is,  and  upon  my 
sense  awakens  perception  of  that  vital  difference  in 
the  painting  of  dawn  and  sunset.  Young  dawn, 
dancing  rosy-footed  over  the  world,  is  glorious  as 
youthful  genius  whose  work  glows  with  every  virtue, 
and,  above  all,  that  of  promise ;  yet  sunrise  colours 
lack  the  ineffable  gentleness  and  pathos  of  those  at 


GATES   OF   THE   MORNING  67 

sunset ;  they  are  infinitely  pure,  infinitely  brilliant, 
and  they  come  as  a  herald  of  life  itself  to  those  who 
can  wake  to  greet  another  morning  willingly ;  but 
there  is  something  in  the  mellow  departure  of  an 
old,  wise  day  that  brings  a  quicker  answer  from  my 
heart-strings.  Dawn  images  hope  and  young  lives 
anew  begun  ;  sunset's  shadows,  ripe  radiance,  and 
lingering  afterglow  strike  to  deeper  thoughts  and 
graver.  Then  pigeons  croon  in  the  pine,  and  the 
weary  world  broods  a  little  before  the  blessings  of 
sleep  and  night. 

"And  still,  while  a  man  tells  the  story,  the  sun  gets 
up  higher,  till  he  shows  a  fair  face  and  a  full  light ; 
and  then  he  shines  one  whole  day  under  a  cloud 
often,  and  sometimes  weeping  great  and  little  showers, 
and  sets  quickly ;  so  is  a  man's  reason  and  his  life." 

But  this  morning  spoke  of  no  shadows.  It  spread 
and  swept  in  waves  of  increasing  splendour  upon 
heath  and  stone,  river  and  valley,  and  the  huge 
bosoms  of  many  hills.  Dawn  glimmered  like  an 
opal  on  the  breast  of  the  whole  earth  ;  then  its  play 
of  colours  passed,  and  frank  day  flooded  the  world 
and  drank  the  dew.  Delicious  tones  and  deep 
shadows  touched  the  red  cattle  and  defined  their 
modelling ;  the  cuckoo  cried,  and  his  song  echoed 
from  the  stone  wall  over  against  his  resting-place 
on  a  whitethorn  ;  the  planes  of  the  Moor  arose  up 
each  out  of  the  other ;  new  glories  grew  beneath 
the  uplifted  sun  ;  cloud  shadows  raced  free  and 
passed  over  the  earth  like  cool  presences ;  little 


68  MY  DEVON   YEAR 

cots  began  to  send  incense  of  blue  peat-smoke  aloft ; 
dogs  barked  musically  and  brought  up  the  full- 
uddered  kine  from  their  nightly  places ;  and  man 
last  of  all  arose  and  went  forth  to  justify  his 
wakening. 

I  met  him  then,  and  there  sounded  gladness  in  his 
voice,  benevolence  in  his  greeting ;  for  the  sun  was 
very  warm,  and  the  month  was  May,  and  the  air 
seemed  good  to  dwell  in  for  all  created  things  that 
breathe  it. 


WHERE  HERRICK   LIES 


WHERE    HERRICK    LIES 


trees  throw  their  shadows  over  the 
moist  grasses,  and  above  them  tower 
Scotch  firs,  whose  stems  glow  warmly  in 
the  sunshine,  whose  crowns  ascend  against 
the  spring  green  of  the  hills.  All  is  light  and  life 
above  the  graves,  and  dewdrops  tremble  in  the  cups 
of  unnumbered  flowers  where  I  seek,  amidst  pale 
blossoms,  for  a  spot  that  shall  seem  good  to  be  the 
poet's  resting-place. 

Is  there  no  magic  wand  of  the  mind  that  may  dip, 
as  the  water-finder's  hazel,  when  a  live  mortal  walks 
here  among  the  primroses  above  the  dust  of  an 
immortal  ?  Cannot  my  heart  pulse  quicker,  or  the 
thrush  sing  sweeter,  or  the  little  violet  yield  a  sweeter 
fragrance  above  Robin  Herrick's  grave? 

I  move  among  the  humble  hillocks  at  Dean  Prior, 
nor  guess  at  all  where  once  the  poet's  proper  mound 
arose.  Ancient  stones  there  are,  but  none  that  rises 
to  him  ;  lichens  still  gnaw  and  nibble  the  names  of 
common  men  from  slate  and  slab  ;  but  no  decaying 
monument  marks  his  resting-place  ;  the  garment  of 
new-born  bud  and  blade  alone  dresses  it.  And  this 
is  good,  for  so  we  seek  him,  not  in  the  perishing 

69 


70  MY  DEVON   YEAR 

record  of  a  stone,  but  upon  the  bosom  of  the  Spring ; 
in  the  petals  of  the  flowers  now  hanging  out  their 
jewels  above  his  head ;  in  the  nodding  grasses  and 
uncurling  ferns  ;  in  the  music  of  birds  and  laughter 
of  little  children. 

It  is  a  playground  of  sun-gleams  and  shadows, 
this  churchyard  of  Dean  Prior ;  a  place  meet  for 
any  singer's  sleep ;  a  sequestered  acre,  sliding  away 
into  fields  and  copses — a  gem  set  in  the  gloom  of 
funereal  yews,  yet  agleam  with  all  the  colours  of 
springtime,  and  alive  with  a  whole  season's  wakening 
life.  Robins  build  between  the  unmortared  stones 
of  ancient  tombs  ;  each  green  grave  is  a  garden  ;  even 
slate  and  slab  are  the  hosts  of  obscure  existences 
— the  familiar  homes  of  fleeting  insects  and  enduring 
moss  and  lichen. 

Here  Herrick  ministered,  and  the  plump,  jocund 
body  of  him  passed  to  and  fro,  met  coarse  lives  with 
coarse  jests,  enjoyed  the  fleshpots  with  frank  pleasure, 
dreamed  of  wine  and  women  and  the  old  joys  between 
sermon-times,  and  fashioned  some  of  the  most  ex- 
quisite lyrics  this  language  shall  know. 

The  cloth  cannot  forgive  him,  and  never  will. 
Clergymen  do  not  understand.  Only  Grosart  of 
clerics  has  grasped  the  whole  truth  about  Herrick  ;  so 
has  Richard  John  King;  so,  in  a  measure,  has  Gosse ; 
but  Hazlitt,  and  since  his  time,  many  a  lesser  Cockney 
critic,  only  throws  the  shadow  of  his  own  ignorance 
upon  him. 

Away  in  the  adjacent  orchard  lands,  a  grey  pile 


WHERE    HERRICK   LIES  71 

rises,  and  there,  at  Dean  Court,  it  may  be  remem- 
bered that  Herrick  found  the  lighter  joys  of  life — 
congenial  companions,  good  cheer,  and  attentive 
audience.  Here,  aforetime,  dwelt  Sir  Edward  Giles  ; 
here,  at  the  instance  of  that  good  knight,  Herrick 
watched  many  an  old  -  world  revel  and  set  down 
perishable  manners  and  customs  in  imperishable 
poetry.  Here  first  he  sang  of 

"  May-poles,  Hock-carts,  wassails,  wakes," 

while  the  peaceful  hamlet  of  his  home — the  woodland, 
the  meadow,  and  the  river  music — awoke  other  notes 
and  inspired  all  that  is  most  beautiful  and  most  true 
in  Hesperides. 

No  man  loved  his  work  better;  no  man  knew  its 
sweep  and  scope  more  thoroughly.  He  rates  it  with 
justice,  and  those  who  would  suck  the  sweetness  must 
first,  if  the  power  lies  in  them,  obey  the  poet's  own 
command  and  enjoy  his  verses  as  he  directs — in  no 
sober,  morning  mood,  but 

"  When  Laurell  spirts  i'  th'  fire,  and  when  the  hearth 
Smiles  to  itselfe  and  guilds  the  roofe  with  mirth." 

For  my  part,  I  had  sooner  read  him  here  and  now, 
amid  the  life  and  scent  of  the  things  he  loved, 
yet  hardly  knew  that  he  loved.  The  hock-cart 
has  vanished,  the  song  of  the  wakers  is  still,  and 
the  maypole  rises  no  more  upon  the  village  green  ; 
but  youth  and  love,  red  dawn  and  golden  twilight, 
dew  and  rain,  and  the  buds  of  Spring  are  immortal — 
sweet  now  as  then,  welcome  now  to  us  as  then  to  him, 


72  MY  DEVON   YEAR 

whose  dust  lies  near  my  footsteps  in  this  musical 
resting-place  of  the  dead. 

The  flowers  are  nodding  his  metres  to  me.  He 
saw  them  ;  he  wove  an  enduring  string  of  diamonds 
from  the  dew  in  a  daffodil,  fashioned  gems  from  the 
violet  and  the  primrose,  the  herb  and  the  tree,  the 
clean  glory  of  daybreak,  and  the  splendours  of 
sunsets.  All  materials  were  good  if  sweet  and  in 
colour  pure.  Musk  and  amber,  coral  and  ivory 
may  be  the  settings  of  his  jewels,  but  these  are 
forgotten  and  forgiven  for  the  workmanship.  At 
his  highest — and  by  his  highest  alone  shall  a  dead 
man  be  rated — he  walks  hand  in  hand  with  Nature 
as  only  a  supreme  artist  may. 

A  cool  air  dries  the  dew  of  the  churchyard  ;  jack- 
daws chime  above  the  belfry ;  great  humble-bees 
labour  in  the  wild  hyacinths  and  struggle  over  the 
grasses,  their  thighs  heavy-laden  with  flower  pollen — 
and  all  tell  of  Herrick.  The  essence  of  his  verse 
haunts  his  grave  for  ever.  Many  places  I  know  fit 
for  the  sleep  of  poets,  yet  none  more  in  keeping  with 
the  particular  dust  of  its  own  singer  than  this.  For 
round  about  are  the  scenes  he  saw,  the  sounds  he 
heard  and  turned  into  music,  the  enduring  bosoms 
of  hills ;  the  leaf  and  flower  and  berry  in  its  season, 
and  the  human  nature  of  the  soil,  whose  garment  and 
manners  change  but  slowly,  whose  self  changes  not. 

Pretty  women  live  here  still,  though  sweet  epitha- 
lamiums  are  no  longer  sung  for  them  when  they  come 
to  their  husbands ;  little  children  fall  off  untimely ; 


WHERE    HERRICK   LIES  73 

good  men  go  to  their  rest ;  and  the  life  of  the  hamlet 
— its  sorrows  and  joys,  hopes  of  harvest  and  of  heaven 
— unfold  in  one  story,  whose  chapters  are  the  seasons, 
whose  sentences  are  records  of  human  prosperity  or 
failure  in  the  lap  of  Nature,  whose  periods  are  the 
graves.  Here  blind  Time,  feeling  for  the  mounds 
beneath  the  yew  trees,  can  measure  his  own  progress. 

The  thought  of  death  moved  Herrick  much,  and 
never  a  man  wrote  with  greater  love  and  faith  of  those 
who  passed  before  him.  Yet  for  himself  he  craved  no 
stone,  and  it  may  be  that  when  his  aged  dust  was 
lowered  into  the  red  earth  here,  the  many  who 
mourned  him  complied  with  some  special  desire  in  this 
sort,  and  lifted  no  memorial. 

It  matters  little  enough  to-day.  To  those  who 
esteem  him  precious  every  leaf  whispers  his  name, 
every  flower  writes  it  on  the  grasses,  every  bird  sings 
it  from  the  whitethorn. 

"  Laid  out  for  dead,  let  thy  last  kindnesse  be 
With  leaves  and  mosse-work  for  to  cover  me ; 
And  while  the  Wood-nimphs  my  cold  corps  inter, 
Sing  thou  my  Dirge,  sweet-warbling  Chorister ! 
For  Epitaph,  in  Foliage,  next  write  this, 
Here,  here  the  Tomb  of  Robin  Herrick  is" 

Forget  this  and  that;  set  aside  without  prudery  and 
head-shaking  the  matters  not  necessary  to  remember. 
Men  make  no  ado  when  they  eject  the  bitter  stone  of 
a  muscat.  The  grape's  the  thing.  Remember  that 
our  Herrick  wrote  "  Corinna's  going  a  Maying,"  "To 
Violets,"  "His  Poetrie  his  Pillar,"  "  To  Musique," 


74  MY  DEVON   YEAR 

"  To  Primroses  filled  with  Morning  Dew,"  "  To 
Anthea  (who  may  command  him  anything),"  "A 
Nuptiall  Song,  or  Epithalamie,  on  Sir  Clipseby  Crew 
and  his  Lady,"  "  To  Daffadills,"  "To  Blossoms," 
"  The  Night-piece,  to  Julia,"  and  half  a  hundred 
more  gems  from  Hesperides ;  that  "His  Letanie,  to 
the  Holy  Spirit,"  "  A  Thanksgiving  to  God,  for  his 
House,"  "The  Dirge  of  Jephthah's  Daughter,"  and 
"The  Widdowes  Teares,"  adorn  Noble  Numbers.  No 
sweeter,  quainter,  more  delicious  music  ever  came  out 
of  Devon,  or  any  other  county,  and  while  the  elect 
still  love  a  laugh  and  a  lyric,  a  pretty  face  and  a 
pretty  flower,  melodious  Robin  shall  hold  his  pyramid. 

"  Not  all  thy  flushing  Sunnes  are  set, 

Herrtck,  as  yet ; 

Nor  doth  this  far-drawn  Hemisphere 
Frown,  and  look  sullen  ev'rywhere, 
Daies  may  conclude  in  nights ;  and  Suns  may  rest, 

As  dead,  within  the  West ; 
Yet  the  next  Morne,  re-guild  the  fragrant  East." 


OKEMENT 

|IKE  Dart  and  Teign  and  other  moorland 
rivers,  Okement  springs  from  twin  fountains 
and  takes  a  divided  course  through  many 
a  mile  of  heath  and  fern  to  waters-meet. 
Her  western  arm  embraces  a  scene  as  strange  as  any 
upon  Dartmoor,  where,  beneath  Black  Tor,  the  Valley 
of  Rocks  shall  be  found,  with  harmonies  wonderful 
and  wild  of  mighty  boulders  and  gushing  falls.  Here 
the  rowan  alone  of  trees  lifts  her  head,  and  ferns  in- 
numerable nestle  within  the  clefts  and  crannies  of  the 
granite.  The  song  of  the  river  is  the  only  music 
beneath  these  enfolding  and  overhanging  hills.  Not 
a  mile  distant  one  may  stand  on  the  crest  of  High 
Willhayes — the  loftiest  land  in  England  south  of 
Cumberland — and  from  this  uplifted  spot,  picture 
Okement  afar  as  she  twinkles  and  glitters  to 
the  West  and  East.  Her  stream  rises  near  a  famous 
abode  of  mystery  and  theatre  of  legend,  where  Cran- 
mere  Pool  lies  at  the  heart's  core  of  the  wilderness ; 
and  her  sister,  bubbling  forth  from  the  boggy  side  of 
Okement  Hill,  gathers  up  the  little  Blackavon  rivulet 
upon  her  way,  leaves  Dartmoor  under  Halstock,  and 
falls  in  cataracts  of  light  along  the  edge  of  forests 
and  the  confines  of  furze-clad  hills. 

75 


76  MY   DEVON    YEAR 

No  spectacle  of  such  chaotic  wonder  as  that 
displayed  in  the  Valley  of  Rocks  may  be  met  with 
near  eastern  Okement,  yet  such  special  loveliness 
as  she  owns  in  springtime  I  know  not  upon  any  other 
stream  of  the  West  Country. 

On  a  morning  while  the  blackthorn  still  blew 
upon  Halstock  Hill,  I  looked  down  from  heights 
above  the  river  and  saw  beneath  me  first  a  receding 
foreground  of  great  oak  trees.  No  leaf  had  yet 
escaped  the  bud-sheath,  but  every  amber  stipule  was 
near  to  bursting,  and  a  warm,  mellow  tone  hovered 
over  the  forest  in  sharp  contrast  to  the  ashy  colour  of 
the  lichens  on  the  boughs  and  the  green  moss  upon 
the  trunks  of  the  trees.  Ivy  shone  out  here  and 
there,  but  the  crown  of  the  foliage  was  still  to  come, 
and  through  the  grey  mesh  of  branches  the  under- 
woods appeared  quite  full  of  young  green,  awake 
with  many  flowers  and  throbbing  to  the  cuckoo's  cry. 

In  the  valley  Okement  tumbled,  while  beyond  the 
river  there  rose  up  a  vast  hill,  gentle  and  round- 
bosomed,  under  one  magnificent  robe  of  the  vernal 
furze.  Marvellous  was  the  contrast  between  that 
sheet  of  glory  and  the  sky  above  it ;  for  aloft  a  sullen 
grey  of  various  tones  spread  far  in  streaks  and  blots 
and  washes.  Great  rains  were  flooding  Northern 
Devon,  and  the  remote  line  of  Exmoor  stretched 
upon  the  horizon  like  a  purple  wale — angry,  storm- 
foundered,  scarcely  to  be  separated  from  the  dark- 
ness above  it. 

The  liquid  light  of  the  oak-buds  bursting,  the  gorse 


OKEMENT  77 

in  one  cataract  of  colour,  and  the  tenebrous  air,  with 
its  far-flung  curtains  of  rain,  were  all  spread  thus 
simply  and  directly  before  me.  I  watched  the  cloud 
movements,  where,  like  melting  lead,  they  poured 
downward,  toppled,  spread,  and  climbed.  A  sun- 
beam touched  the  red  earth  ten  miles  off  and  set  it 
glimmering  there  in  the  heart  of  the  gloom  like  a 
ruby.  Then  it  vanished  again,  and  the  roaming  pencil 
of  light  went  out. 

In  the  woods  by  Oke  the  earth  was  soft  underfoot, 
and  the  sweet  smell  of  Spring  hung  upon  the  air. 
The  first  bluebells  were  opening,  and  as  each  spike 
took  fulness  of  colour  and  each  blossom  made  ready, 
she  turned  from  her  upward  poise  and  gently  drooped 
her  head  to  look  down  at  the  earth  that  bore  her. 
Primroses  spattered  the  woodlands  with  clumps  and 
stars  and  trailing  clusters  where  they  had  fallen, 
flung  haphazard  from  the  Mother's  hand;  wood- 
sorrels  sparkled  with  their  own  translucent  and  frail 
beauty ;  pure  water,  gushing  from  the  secret  haunts 
of  the  golden  saxifrage  and  moschatel,  spread  its 
crystal  above  the  wreck  of  the  year  that  was  gone, 
and  helped  all  the  dead  things  to  dissolve  away  into 
the  earth  again.  So  they  departed,  and  the  passing 
of  the  dark,  soaked  leaf -drifts,  rotting  wood,  and 
empty  acorn-cups  was  a  part  of  Spring  as  proper 
as  the  dancing  haze  of  young  grass  and  the  blue- 
bells and  fern  fronds  upspringing  with  them.  Fern- 
life,  indeed,  often  still  clustered  in  a  silky  silver 
knot  at  the  centre  of  the  trailing  and  dead  brown 


78  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

foliage  from  the  past.  Water  glittered  everywhere, 
like  a  network  of  nerves  in  the  wood's  deep  breast 
— glittered  and  tumbled  and  vanished  to  twinkle 
out  again  a  step  lower  on  the  way  down  to  the  river. 
Arrived  there,  the  streamlets  fell  over  mossy  ledges 
and  took  small  live  things  down  to  the  trout,  that 
understood  and  waited  patiently  for  their  meat  in 
the  pools  below. 

The  river,  now  echoing  her  farewell  to  the  hills, 
makes  a  comely  passage  through  this  scene  of  Spring, 
where,  like  newly  fallen  snow,  the  wind-flowers  spread 
about  her.  They  cover  her  banks  until  one  can 
scarcely  see  the  green,  cluster  to  the  water's  edge, 
and  reappear  on  every  little  island  where  foothold 
serves  them. 

Anon,  in  the  valley,  Oke  meets  Oke  and,  sobered 
from  their  riotous  and  joyous  childhood,  through  the 
plains  and  forests  they  flow  together.  Then  it  happens 
to  them  as  it  happened  to  many  a  lesser  stream  that 
they  have  gathered  upon  their  way :  they  lose  their 
hypostasis  and,  gliding  into  Torridge  nigh  Hather- 
leigh,  roll  onward,  lost  in  a  greater  river,  to  the  Severn 
Sea. 

"  Beneath  Hatherleigh,"  says  old  Tristram  Risdon, 
"the  Touridge  maketh  way  for  the  meeting  of  his 
beloved  Ock,  whence  they  run  together  in  one  channel 
and  one  name." 


HARMONY   IN   BLUE 


HARMONY    IN    BLUE 

JVER  my  head  is  a  blue  sky,  at  my  feet  a 
blue  sea,  and  round  me  bluebells  and  the 
murmur  of  honey-bees  at  work  in  them. 
The  sun  is  on  the  cloud  even  to  the  horizon, 
where,  in  solemn  lines,  depart  the  giant  rearguards  of 
yesterday's  rain ;  on  the  water  he  twinkles  in  the 
million  dimples  of  a  laughing  ocean ;  and  he  is  winning 
the  scent  from  the  bluebells,  where  he  dapples  their 
glaucous  green  and  paints  the  purple  of  kings  on 
every  blossom.  This  great  vision  of  many  blues, 
high  as  heaven,  remote  as  the  pallor  of  the  horizon, 
near  as  the  nodding  hyacinths — this  magic  sun-flooded 
world  of  aquamarine  and  amethyst,  of  turquoise  and 
sheer  sapphire  where  cloud  shadows  float  on  the  water, 
rejoices  a  man's  heart  despite  himself,  triumphs  over 
lesser  things,  rounds  the  ragged  edges  of  a  sorrow, 
laughs  at  a  fear,  offers  passing  rest  and  peace,  points 
the  lonely  road  to  content.  There  is  sunshine  every- 
where, not  to  be  resisted ;  nor  does  it  miss  me, 
for  I,  too,  am  part  of  this  unbounded  whole ;  the 
red  earth  whereof  I  am  made  is  as  precious  as 
the  red  earth  of  cliffs  and  precipices ;  and  I  take 
glory  to  know  that  the  sun  is  warming  me  as  gladly, 

79 


8o  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

as  willingly,  as  he  warms  the  wide  sea  and  the 
sprouting  pine-buds. 

I  thank  Nature  for  my  eyes,  that  it  has  pleased  her 
to  let  me  see  a  little ;  and  then,  plunging  curiously 
into  the  riddle  of  the  senses,  estimate  the  force  and 
significance  of  each  before  this  great  blue  jewel  of  a 
world,  set  in  gold  and  smiling  for  me,  singing  for  me 
under  the  sun. 

Aforetime,  when  they  counted  seven  senses,  there 
was  a  fine  conceit  upon  them  that  a  planet  dominated 
each,  and  that  each  was  compounded  from  one  of  the 
seven  properties.  Earth  gave  the  sense  of  feeling; 
fire  furnished  life  itself;  and  water — the  musical  ele- 
ment— fitly  provided  speech.  From  the  air  came 
taste ;  from  the  South  wind  the  sense  of  smell ;  the 
flowers  gave  hearing ;  and  the  mist  of  Heaven  was 
credited  with  power  to  produce  man's  sight. 

My  eyes  come  first :  they  are  the  main  entrance  to 
a  man's  brain ;  yet  this  spectacle  of  sea  and  sky  is 
not  easy  to  picture  without  the  melody  of  it  also.  I 
thrust  my  fingers  in  my  ears  and  look  again,  and  so 
blot  out  a  wide  part  of  that  which  serves  unconsciously 
to  perfect  all.  The  trees  move,  but  their  whisper — 
the  cradle-song  of  an  English  wood — is  lost  to  me  ; 
grey  gulls  patter  over  the  shining  sand  below,  or 
ride  at  rest,  like  constellations  of  little  stars  upon  the 
sea,  but  their  melodious  mewing,  the  wild  crescendo 
of  sound  that  echoes  in  caves  and  crannies  of  stone 
— this  proper  music  of  sea-facing  cliffs  has  departed. 
The  lark,  shrilling  aloft,  is  also  suddenly  dumb ;  the 


HARMONY   IN   BLUE  81 

sheep-bell  sounds  no  longer  with  muffled  jangle  from 
the  wether's  woolly  neck ;  and  the  waves  beneath  me, 
lazily  dying  in  narrow  ribbons  of  foam,  utter  no  sigh 
at  the  throb  of  the  sea's  great  heart,  tinkle  no  little 
shell,  whisper  no  news.  To  the  door  of  the  ear  come 
messengers  on  every  wind  that  blows.  Fasten  it  up 
for  an  hour,  and  your  straining  nerves  and  starving 
ears  will  tell  the  nature  of  the  daily  debt  more  clearly 
than  words. 

So  I  throw  open  those  portals  again,  and  the  dumb 
picture  speaks  and  sings  ;  and  I  am  thankful.  Now 
can  I  listen  to  the  music  of  bird  and  beast,  of  wind 
and  water,  of  tree  and  underwood ;  of  adult  life  on 
feet  and  wings  ;  of  the  callow,  young,  comic  jackdaws, 
hopping  open-beaked  after  their  mother  ;  of  the  lambs 
upon  their  knees  under  the  yellow-eyed  ewes. 

Far  away  northerly,  like  a  pale  blue  gauze  stretched 
along  the  sky,  rise  outlines  of  another  world  than  this. 
There  Dartmoor  swells  solemnly  under  granite  crowns 
— a  sea  of  lonely  stone  and  heather.  But  there  also 
do  bluebells  nod  under  the  sun  ;  there  also  cloud 
shadows  race  free  over  hills  and  valleys,  over  streams 
and  rivers,  over  granite  ruins  of  Danmonian  homes, 
over  those  wild  waste  places  where  Devon  men  toiled 
for  metal  when  Shakespeare  wrote,  over  many  a 
wilderness  of  riven  peat,  from  which  the  venville 
tenant  will  cut  his  winter  firing  presently.  There, 
too,  ring  cries  as  sad  as  the  seagull's,  where  curlew 
wheel  and  make  plaintive  to-do  about  the  little  stone- 
coloured  chicks  squeaking  and  tumbling  through  their 
G 


82  MY  DEVON  YEAR 

first  few  days  of  life  beneath.  And  the  ponies  thud 
with  unshod  feet  over  the  grass  and  heather,  and  many 
bells  make  music,  and  the  yellow-hammer's  long-drawn 
cry  comes  sadly  from  some  solitary  thorn,  whose  back 
is  bent  by  long  buffeting  of  the  western  wind. 

Blue-robed  Alma  Venus  walks  there  too,  and  Spring 
strews  flowers  before  her. 


PROMISE 


PROMISE 

N  this  most  ancient  orchard  the  old  trees 
stand  disposed  irregularly,  and  where 
veterans  have  passed  away  their  places 
are  filled  by  young,  supple  plants,  whose 
youthful  bearing,  trim  uprightness,  and  aspiring 
attitude  contrast  with  the  gnarled  patriarchs  around 
them,  and  with  those  intermediate  bearers,  now 
grown  to  full  vigour  of  life  and  splendour  of  fruition. 
Here  the  aged  and  the  adult  mingle  with  the  young, 
as  in  human  colonies.  I  breathe  life  from  the 
abundance  around  me ;  I  win  hope  from  all  this 
promise ;  and  heart  out  of  the  music  and  the  colour. 
A  million  petals  gleam  and  red  buds  sparkle ;  the 
sun -lances  dart  everywhere ;  the  song  of  the  birds 
does  not  drown  the  under-song  of  those  little  glimmer- 
ing myriads  busy  in  each  open  flower  about  the  vital 
matter  of  honey  and  bee-bread. 

May  has  resigned  her  sceptre,  and  it  is  June ;  but 
May  departed  gloriously,  made  a  noble  end  in  music, 
and  passed  with  promise. 

Beneath  this  orchard  there  spreads  a  carpet  woven 
of  many  greens,  of  sunlight,  and  spring  flowers. 

83 


84  MY  DEVON   YEAR 

The  daisy,  the  buttercup,  the  speedwell,  and  the 
budding  blossoms  of  the  grasses  are  rippling  to  my 
feet,  while  where  the  orchard  slopes  towards  a  hazel 
hedge,  great  snow-white  umbel-bearers  rise  above 
lesser  things,  and  the  dock  and  the  burdock  prosper, 
and  the  swords  of  the  yellow  iris  shine  blue -green 
above  running  water.  The  nettles,  in  vigorous 
communities,  look  grey  amid  so  much  young  verdure, 
and  the  last  of  the  bluebells  hang  their  heads  where 
the  ferns  uncurl  beside  them.  Huge,  cool  shadows, 
almost  purple,  fall  upon  this  carpet,  and  growing 
deeper  with  distance,  they  make  a  sort  of  soft  gloom 
through  the  regiments  of  the  tree  -  stems.  The 
trunks  spring  upwards  at  all  angles,  of  all  shapes, 
inscribed  with  every  fantastic  lichen-word  that  the 
Mother  writes  on  ancient  barks.  In  tones  of  ripe, 
mossy  green,  of  silver-brown,  and  of  silver-grey,  the 
apple  trees  stand ;  with  wild,  perfect  confusion  they 
thrust  forth  their  boughs.  The  branches  strike  out 
abruptly ;  they  start  oblique ;  they  spring  aloft,  then 
droop ;  they  droop,  then  rise ;  they  turn  upon  them- 
selves and  twist  lovingly  back  to  the  parent  stem  ; 
they  trace  a  maze  against  the  grey  of  winter  skies  ; 
and  now  they  furnish  meet  frameworks  for  the 
glory  of  foliage  and  of  bloom.  Their  forms  are 
partly  hidden  at  this  hour,  and  the  wonderful 
harmonies  of  line  and  reticulation  of  boughs  are 
almost  draped  in  leafy  garments,  almost  wreathed 
with  flowers. 

I  think  lichens  love  the  rose-folk,  for  here,  as  on 


PROMISE  85 

the  blackthorn  and  the  whitethorn,  they  frill  and 
tucker  the  baby  tree  as  freely  as  they  cling  like  his 
pall  to  the  venerable  ancient.  Certain  willows,  too, 
especially  attract  them  as  host ;  and  the  strange, 
exquisite  growths  of  these  rock-lovers  and  bark-lovers 
—some  rough  and  harsh,  some  delicate  as  a  dream — 
appear  to  rise  into  life  upon  the  soft,  rainy  winds  that 
come  out  of  the  South  and  the  West.  To  the  very 
ends  of  antique  boughs  they  push  and  cling ;  and  now 
the  crimson  and  snow  of  the  flowers  peep  from  among 
their  encrustations,  while  in  Autumn  the  ripening 
harvest  will  gleam  there. 

The  apple-blossom  under  direct  sunshine  is  alive 
with  pure  light  and  wonderful  blue  shades,  for  petal- 
shadow  thrown  on  petal  strikes  a  cool,  soft  blue,  as 
I  see  it — doubtless  by  contrast  with  the  brilliance 
of  flower  and  ruby  bud  under  direct  sunlight.  The 
pageant  passes  from  wealth  of  detail  close  at  hand 
into  dim  splendour  seen  afar.  A  little  distance  from 
me  the  atmosphere  comes  between,  makes  its  presence 
felt,  touches  the  leaf  and  bough  and  blossom-mass, 
brings  all  together,  and  softens  every  line  and  curve 
with  sleepy  summer  air.  Against  this  curtain  gleam 
the  bees  ;  the  wind  moves  a  lazy  leaf  to  let  a 
sunbeam  through ;  the  blackbird — who  alone  of 
birds  can  put  imagination  into  his  song — flutes 
it  unseen  ;  the  chaffinch — optimist  that  he  is — 
utters  an  assurance  that  all  promises  exceedingly 
well  with  his  world,  and  hops  to  the  grey  lichen- 
covered  home  in  an  apple-fork.  His  wing  sends 


86  MY   DEVON    YEAR 

down  a  shower  of  petals,  and  they  tell  the  grass  of 
the  atoms  that  they  have  just  left  upon  the  bough 
to  begin  their  apple-life.  For  that  twinkle  of  snow 
through  the  green  announces  that  certain  infant  fruits 
have  this  instant  entered  upon  serious  existence  and 
cast  off  their  long  clothes  for  ever. 

From  the  unfolding  foam  of  hoary  dwarfs  and 
upright  adults  alike  goes  forth  a  promise.  Early 
fruit  is  already  setting,  while  later  trees  still  hold 
their  buds  tight  clenched,  as  though  half  a  hundred 
Springs  have  taught  them  fear  of  the  green  month. 
But  if  May  woos,  June  commands  ;  the  first  may  be 
resisted,  but  before  the  second  every  reluctant  bud 
must  open  to  fulfil  destiny. 

The  sun  makes  a  splendour  of  each  grass-blade, 
and  in  such  clear  seeing  I  can  watch  the  very  heart- 
beat of  Spring  until  blade  and  leaf  and  open  blossom 
are  but  a  transparent  veil,  and  I  go  under  the  brown 
and  the  grey,  beneath  the  rind  and  the  bark  and  the 
polished  golden-green  young  growths,  to  the  core  of 
them.  And  there  I  see  their  sweet,  sugary  blood 
coursing ;  I  mark  how  it  throbs  pure  quintessence 
of  life  from  the  unknown  fountain  to  each  minute,  im- 
mature leaflet,  to  every  knot  of  buds,  to  the  least  vague, 
scarce-defined  green  calyx  that  hides  a  coming  flower. 
So  witnessed,  a  sort  of  personality  awakens,  and  I 
share  the  unconscious  lives  and  stretch  hands  to  every 
tree  ;  while  they  approach  me  also  ;  and  coming  a  little 
from  our  sequestered  and  separate  ways,  we  touch 
hearts  here  in  the  common  temples  of  Spring.  I 


PROMISE  87 

enter  into  the  portals  of  their  being  ;  they  sympathise 
with  the  nature  hid  in  me.  For  their  guardian  spirits 
they  have  dear,  sunny  hamadryads,  that  were  born 
with  them,  and  that  with  them  will  die.  I  watch  the 
feeble  giant  mourning  his  last  wreath  of  bloom  and 
waiting  next  winter's  knife  to  make  an  end  ;  I  see 
the  pride  of  a  glad  sapling  for  the  first  time  crowned 
with  garlands  of  flowers ;  their  joys  and  sorrows  are 
not  hi4  from  me  any  more. 

At  this  moment  there  wandered  through  the 
orchard  a  girl — a  girl  with  grey  eyes  and  red  lips 
and  budding  shape.  Her  sun-bonnet  was  pale  as 
the  petals  that  clustered  above  it ;  her  light  form 
scarcely  bruised  the  grass  as  she  tripped  among  the 
trees,  and  the  sun  flashed  upon  her  white  apron. 
This  young  daughter  of  the  Spring  approached  me 
where  I  sat,  and  bade  me  welcome,  and  laughed 
pleasantly  to  see  me  awaken  as  from  the  deepest 
abstractions  at  her  voice.  Her  laugh  was  dulcet, 
and  so  low  that  it  mingled  musically  with  the  hum 
of  the  bees  above  us. 

"  Braave  blooth,"  she  said  ;  "  I  do  love  this  time  o' 
the  year  best,  for  'tis  all  life  an'  no  death — all  promise 
of  good  apples  come  the  Autumn." 

Thus  was  the  thought  of  promise  in  her  mind  also. 
A  caterpillar  on  a  glimmering  thread  swayed  between 
us  ;  I  saw  death  in  his  strange  shape,  and  knew  of  the 
battle  under  every  leaf,  the  greedy  unborn  legions 
waiting  to  burst  forth  that  they  might  devour  the 
foliage,  burrow  in  the  fruit,  and  gain  their  purpose 


88  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

by  defeating  man's.  But  of  these  things  to  the  girl 
I  had  no  heart  to  speak. 

"  Us  shall  get  a  gert,  wonnerful  crop  this  year — so 
father  hopes.  I'll  pick  'e  a  dinky  piece  for  your 
buttonhole  if  you  mind  to,  though  'tis  treason  to 
pluck  it." 

It  was  an  offer  made  because  we  were  old  friends. 

"Take  the  flowers  to  one  who  would  value  them 
more,"  I  said,  and  she  understood  very  well,  and 
nodded  and  broke  a  spray  unfolding,  and  pinned  it  to 
her  own  breast  until  it  should  adorn  another's  when 
evening  came. 

"  'Tis  lovely,  come  to  think  of  it,"  she  murmured, 
looking  at  the  opening  buds,  whose  yellow  anthers 
peeped  from  each  pure  chalice.  She  lifted  the  spray 
to  her  face  and  kissed  it — such  a  kiss  as  flowers  might 
give  each  other.  The  sudden  discovery  of  this  loveli- 
ness in  the  blossoms  made  her  silent  for  a  moment ; 
but  soon  we  talked  again,  and  hope  was  in  our  voices. 

Presently  she  bade  me  farewell,  then  went  upon  her 
way  with  a  little  purring  laugh.  Happiness  and 
content  passed  with  her ;  in  her  tone  was  uncon- 
scious praise  ;  in  her  love  of  the  blossom,  unconscious 
worship. 

So,  fittingly  into  an  orchard  planted  with  hands,  this 
maiden  thus  came,  and  from  thought  of  wood-fairies, 
she  led  me  to  the  men  and  women  whose  hopes 
centred  here,  to  the  fruit  whose  prosperity  would 
lighten  and  whose  failure  would  cloud  their  human 
hearts.  And  at  last,  as  warm  light  touched  the  glory 


PROMISE  89 

of  all  this  unmeasured  blossom,  as  the  day — mellow 
from  beholding  so  much  beauty — slowly  died,  I  rose 
and  departed ;  yet  not  without  one  prayer  to  Pomona 
that  she  would  be  pleased  presently  to  bless  these 
glades,  and  in  their  boughs  make  true  the  golden 
prophecy  of  the  sunset. 


THE    OLD    CANAL 

I 

|E RE  once,  in  days  long  vanished,  was 
busy  trafficking  of  little  barges,  and  small 
vessels,  laden  with  corn  and  coal,  passed 
slowly  through  the  turns  and  twists  and 
fair  windings  of  this  North  Devon  valley.  But  the 
ancient  waterway  has  served  its  purpose,  and  man 
needs  it  no  more.  For  the  most  part  the  old  canal 
is  now  drained  dry,  but  here  and  there  a  riparian 
owner  has  preserved  the  former  conditions.  In  such 
places  time  quickly  charms  the  deserted  waters,  and 
the  wind  brings  seeds  of  life,  while  a  message  passes 
magically  along — from  bud  to  bird,  from  fishes  to  the 
black-eyed  furry  tenants  of  the  banks — that  daily 
transit  of  boat  and  man  is  done  for  ever,  and  the 
winding  depths  henceforth  signed  and  sealed  to 
Nature. 

A  notable  picture  she  has  planned  through  the 
years.  I  see  the  canal  winding  from  me — a  riband 
of  many  colours,  whose  shining  surface  is  painted 
by  earth  and  air  and  water.  Here  tawny  it  lies, 
with  strange  scums  and  microscopic  growths  wakened 
by  hot  June  sunlight ;  here  underweeds  darken 

90 


THE  OLD  CANAL 


THE   OLD   CANAL  91 

the  volume  of  it  to  purple  ;  here  the  surface  is 
suddenly  rippled  and  broken  into  a  shimmer  of 
colourless  light,  where  a  shoal  of  dace  simultaneously 
splash  at  some  sudden  fear ;  and  then  abrupt  images 
of  the  tangled  bank  stand  forth  in  the  crystal,  with 
reflections  of  blue  sky,  lazy  cloud,  and  passing  bird, 
as  the  water  settles  once  again  into  a  wide-reaching 
mirror. 

Silver-grey  at  a  point  of  passage  from  the  tow-path 
to  meadow  lands  on  the  other  side,  an  old  wooden 
bridge  spans  the  canal,  and  its  brick  piers  stretch 
above  a  brown  pool.  An  ancient  fabric  it  is,  yet  sound 
oak  lies  hidden  under  the  mossy  vestment  of  the 
beams,  and  one  may  conceive  of  the  venerable  thing, 
now  making  a  slow,  fair  end,  all  unregarded  in  this 
lovely  valley,  as  spanning  more  than  the  water  with 
its  ripe  old  brickwork  and  time-stained  timbers,  as 
dreaming  of  the  life  that  circulated  here  long  ago, 
of  the  flat  boats  that  crept  beneath  it,  of  the  plod- 
ding beasts  and  men  that  passed  and  repassed  on 
their  journey  to  and  from  the  distant  sea.  Yet, 
not  so  distant  for  those  who  know ;  because  some 
folks  who  feel  this  region  to  be  a  part  of  themselves, 
and  who  read  in  this  old  canal  the  romance  or 
poem  that  life  has  sung  for  them — such  declare 
that  the  existence  of  the  adjacent  ocean  is  whispered 
by  every  bending  blade ;  proclaimed  by  the  western 
wind,  dallying  here  among  the  grey-green  sallows 
and  wild  flowers  in  his  journey  from  the  Atlantic  ; 
most  surely  announced  by  snowy-breasted  gulls  that 


92  MY  DEVON   YEAR 

from  time  to  time,  like  specks  of  sunlight,  wheel  and 
turn  at  great  altitudes  above  the  valley. 

Now  old  bridge,  dead  waters,  and  grass-grown  tow- 
path  belong  to  the  rabbits,  the  moor-hens  and  dab- 
chicks,  the  little  rats  and  the  gilded  legions  of  the 
dragon-fly.  A  rabbit  lies  at  full  stretch  here  ;  I  have 
surprised  him  sunning  his  white  furry  belly  like  a  cat. 
The  moorhens  build  a  cunning  nest  of  dead  sedges 
twisted  among  young  living  ones  and  piled  upwards 
until  a  little  plateau  rises  in  the  water,  a  grey  oasis 
within  whose  cup  lie  purple-mottled  eggs.  Many  such 
occur  within  reach  of  hand  along  the  old  canal,  and 
when  chicks  are  hatched,  the  mother  moorhens 
hasten  away  at  sight  of  danger,  with  a  flash  of  white 
feathers  in  their  flirting  tails,  or,  snugly  concealed, 
utter  whispering  warnings  to  their  tiny  young,  who, 
from  an  experience  extending  over  four-and-twenty 
hours,  still  feel  disposed  to  trust  mankind.  They  are 
covered  with  black  down ;  their  bills  are  dabbed  with 
crimson,  and  if  fear  falls  on  them,  they  lift  up  their 
voices,  squeak  the  nature  of  the  peril,  and  with  small 
webbed  feet  and  extended  wings  skim  like  water-flies 
along  the  surface  of  the  stream  until  kindly  sedges 
hide  them. 

A  kaleidoscopic  rainbow  of  the  many  -  coloured 
odonata  lights  every  bend  and  reach  of  the  old  canal. 
These  dragon-flies,  and  devil's  darning-needles,  gleam 
and  dance  and  rustle,  gem  the  brown  scum  and 
glaucous  sedges,  take  their  fill  of  love  in  mid -air, 
spangle  the  shadows,  and  make  sunshine  the  brighter 


THE   OLD   CANAL  93 

with  their  jewel  colours  of  opal  and  amethyst  and 
demon  green.  A  ripple  stealing  out  from  the  bank 
marks  a  water-vole's  progress,  and  watching  the  rat- 
ways,  patted  smooth  by  many  small  paws,  I  hear 
a  crisp  sound,  note  a  wet-furred,  bright-eyed  thing 
humped  up  on  a  grass-tuft,  and  see  him  nibble  his 
vegetable  luncheon  from  the  juicy  green  stems.  He 
catches  my  eye,  is  pained  at  the  spectacle  of  me, 
and  hops  into  safety  with  a  splash.  He  swims 
away  submerged,  and  will  not  rise  again  until  within 
the  security  of  some  hole  whose  entrance  is  under 
water. 

Who  shall  tell  or  paint  the  beauty  that  these  still 
reaches  waken  and  feed  ?  Who  shall  count  the  colours 
of  the  June  flowers  that  spangle  the  face  of  the  canal 
and  adorn  its  banks  ?  Their  numbers  are  bewil- 
dering ;  their  shapes  as  varied  as  the  twinkle  of 
sunbeams  in  the  agate  depths,  where  little  arrows  of 
light  play  hide-and-seek  under  the  surface.  There 
is  dark  green  and  golden  green  ;  the  silvery  tones 
of  sallow,  willow,  and  osier,  the  shining,  fresh  opu- 
lence of  young  alders ;  the  upspringing  foliage  of 
reed-mace,  sedge,  rush  ;  the  quaint  shapes  of  marsh 
equisetum  rising  above  the  water ;  the  frog-bit's  little 
three-petalled  blossoms,  afloat  in  colonies ;  the  great 
water-plantain's  spear-like  foliage  surmounted  by  last 
year's  skeleton  flower -stalks.  These  all  are  here, 
with  humbler  things  that  fill  each  its  place  in 
the  woof  of  this  most  brilliant  web.  And  on  the 
banks,  rising  above  a  mist  of  ripe  grass  and  the 


94  MY  DEVON  YEAR 

russet  of  seeding  sorrel-docks,  tower  thistles  and  the 
blooms  of  the  yellow  iris.  Ragged  robins  gem  the 
great  tangles  of  herbage ;  greater  skull-caps  open  at 
the  water-side ;  and  buds  of  larger  things  to  come  : 
ragworts  and  willow-herbs,  field  roses  and  meadow- 
sweets, are  still  hid  in  the  green.  Buttercups  flame 
reflections  into  the  pools ;  sweet  aromatic  breaths  of 
water-mint  rise  ;  here  are  orchis  and  yellow  rattle ; 
here  prosper  the  wild  chervil  and  straggling  vetch  ; 
here,  at  touch  of  hand,  I  can  squeeze  the  scent  out 
of  the  fronds  of  the  bracken — a  fragrance  that  is  the 
very  soul  of  Summer.  Sheep  come  down  presently 
from  uplifted  pastures  through  wastes  of  nodding 
ox-eye  daisies,  and  they  drink  with  bleating  and 
greeting  of  content.  Upon  the  tow-path,  immediately 
above  the  water,  I  mark  a  silver  glimmer  of  shells, 
whose  inner  walls  are  mo  ther-o' -pearl ;  but  these 
homes  of  the  fresh-water  mussels  had  been  torn 
asunder,  and  the  dwellers  within  devoured. 

Yet  Life,  not  Death,  was  the  anthem  of  that  high 
noon  hour.  The  secret  of  the  day  appeared  in  the 
teeming,  fecund  outpourings  of  Nature,  who  brings 
forth  thousands  that  hundreds  may  live,  that  fifties 
may  grow  to  adult  perfection,  that  tens  may  propa- 
gate their  kind.  Little  tadpole  people  blackened  many 
square  yards  of  the  old  canal,  insect  life  dawned  in  an 
endless  stream ;  up  rush  and  sedge  strange  goblin 
things  crept  from  the  muddy  darkness  into  noonday 
air,  burst  their  sombre  vesture,  shivered  into  per- 
fection, and  then  twinkled  away  as  the  sun  set  jewels 


THE   OLD   CANAL  95 

gleaming  on  their  gauzes,  and  woke  ruby  and  emerald 
lights  in  their  wonderful  eyes. 

Birds  haunt  the  old  canal,  and  pheasants  drink 
from  it  at  evening  time,  where  it  winds  through  silent 
coppice  and  spinny  ;  while  wood -pigeons,  surprised 
from  their  sob  and  croon  in  lofty  firs,  start  suddenly 
upward  and  away,  with  a  rush  and  hurtle  of  wings. 

The  environment  varies  from  frame  of  meadows 
and  tilled  land  to  the  inner  depths  and  mysteries 
of  dark  woods  and  deserted  wastes.  Here,  where  I 
set  down  this  chronicle,  reflections  of  charlock  lighted 
the  canal  face  from  acres  of  green  corn  on  the  bosom 
of  a  hill  ;  and  beyond  the  young  grain,  grass  lands 
arose  to  wind-blown  elms  about  a  crocketed  church 
tower.  Elsewhere,  seen  clear  against  the  blue,  grey 
roofs  of  slated  farms  extended  westward,  with  warm 
tones  of  ancient  stacks  that  stood  above  the  ripple  of 
hay  now  ready  for  the  cutting.  And  followed  further, 
the  old  canal  wound  into  copses  and  jungles  of  trees 
—pine  and  oak,  ash  and  tall  cherry — where  fell  much 
play  of  chequered  light  and  battle  of  sunbeams  that 
winnowed  their  ways  to  the  water. 

The  music  of  the  hour  was  also  sweet.  Remote 
drone  of  rooks  and  young  rooks  made  the  bass  of  it, 
and  against  this  background  of  sustained  sound  were 
set  the  bleat  of  sheep  and  lambs,  the  songs  of  black- 
birds and  larks  and  chaffinches,  the  shrieks  of  robber 
jays,  the  sibilation  of  a  grasshopper-warbler  near  his 
hidden  home,  the  tinkle  of  a  wren's  little  lay,  the 
castanets  of  a  magpie,  who  with  much  rattle  of  speech 


96  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

and  flutter  of  black  and  white  plumage,  made  laboured 
flight  among  the  tree-tops. 

It  is  afterwards  that  such  spectacles  as  the  old 
canal  repay  a  man  for  whole-hearted  worship  before 
them — long  afterwards,  through  the  watches  of  sleep- 
less nights,  under  darkness,  or  in  the  dreary  avenues 
of  pain.  Then  they  return,  these  pictures,  if  we  have 
seen  them  true;  they  return  with  their  light  and  music 
and  old  glory  as  it  was  on  a  bygone  day.  No  more 
we  hear  the  rustle  of  the  fire,  nor  the  cry  of  the 
morning  wind  on  the  pane  ;  no  more  we  feel  the  evil 
gnawing  in  the  clay  of  us ;  for  a  little  while  we  can 
call  back  yesterday  ;  for  a  moment  we  stand  on  the 
threshold  of  a  summer-time  long  dead ;  and  as  the 
good  images  waken,  memory  brings  a  little  peace. 


A  WHITE   ROCK-ROSE 


A    WHITE    ROCK-ROSE 

||Y  hunting-ground  hangs  midway  between 
earth  and  sea,  where  huge  limestone  cliffs 
stand  firm-footed  in  the  blue  waters  of  the 
Channel,  where  wondrous  sunshine  lights 
their  dark  clefts  and  crannies  and  wide  surfaces,  set- 
ting them  agleam  with  hues  of  lemon  and  orange 
and  pearly  grey,  where  shadows  from  passing  clouds 
or  oncoming  night  paint  their  great  foreheads  with 
purple  by  day  and  in  tones  of  sombre  monochrome  at 
sunset  time.  Here  dwell  numberless  sea-birds,  that 
greet  me  with  cries  and  protests,  because  they  have 
knowledge  of  little  seagull  squabs  perched  far  below 
on  the  dizzy  ledges,  and  count  those  treasures  the 
object  of  my  search.  So  they  rush  up  on  broad 
wings  from  beneath,  swoop  down  from  above,  sweep 
and  swirl  every  way,  some  crying,  some  whistling, 
some  uttering  a  sort  of  cynic  laughter  as  they  speculate 
on  my  ultimate  destination,  if  I — a  creature  wingless — 
venture  nearer  to  their  homes.  Here,  too,  dwell  the 
things  I  seek.  Wide,  gentle  undulations  stretch  in- 
land, shimmering  under  a  summer  noon,  and  the  short 
herbage  makes  proper  setting  for  the  minute  gems  of 
the  flowers.  Mother-o'-thyme  spreads  purple  patches 
H  97 


98  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

on  the  green,  and  yields  her  scent  only  to  those  who 
crush  her  beneath  their  feet ;  between  the  gorse 
and  heather  ridges,  dwarfed  by  western  winds,  the 
little  pink  stars  of  centauries  peep  along  the  downs  ; 
brake-fern  shines  upon  the  waste  and  weathers  to 
russet  under  the  wind;  the  slender  thistle  springs  from 
the  scorched  herbage,  carline  thistles  spread  amber 
rays ;  cathartic  flax  twinkles  with  the  shaking  grass  ; 
lady's  bedstraw,  and  other  of  the  galium  folk,  make 
light  everywhere,  and  twine  their  brightness  into  the 
texture  of  the  waste  ;  while  the  least  of  them— 
the  tiny  squinancy-wort — also  dwells  here  in  com- 
pany of  the  silky  cudweeds,  and  small  trefoils,  and 
pink  and  white  stork's-bills  tucked  into  limestone 
crannies.  Here,  too,  a  choice  and  exceedingly  scarce 
plant — the  hone  wort — shall  be  found  in  June,  and 
presently  goldilocks — a  treasure  rarer  than  gold — will 
scatter  her  wealth  hard  by,  when  the  empty  calyx  of 
the  knapweed  shines  like  silver,  when  the  thrift  and 
sea -lavender  are  dead,  and  a  thousand  seed-cases 
tell  of  Autumn. 

Around  me  are  the  foundations  of  deserted  forts. 
There  is  a  drone  of  bees  in  the  thyme,  a  dance 
of  heat  along  the  way,  and  a  man  lifts  his  eyes  from 
so  much  of  withered  green  to  the  blue  waters 
beyond,  to  the  mists  and  cloud-mazes  of  the  pale 
horizon,  to  the  ruddy,  tanned  sails  of  the  fishing 
fleet,  or  wind-torn,  smoky  tangle  from  a  steamer's 
funnel  seen  afar  off  on  the  edge  of  the  sea. 
Summer  holds  the  crown  of  this  great  cliff,  while 


A    WHITE   ROCK-ROSE  99 

the  open  eyes  of  scarlet  pimpernels  scan  the  sky  for 
promise  of  desired  rain,  and,  seeing  none,  stare  un- 
winking on.  With  their  leaves  and  blossoms  the  plants 
fret  the  masonry  that  man  has  deserted ;  they  fill  the 
embrasures  fashioned  for  old-time  cannon  ;  find  life 
in  the  crumbling  mortar,  suck  life  from  the  stone. 
Many  familiar  friends  one  might  count,  both  on  open 
down  and  amid  the  desolation  of  these  ruins ;  but 
such  I  passed  with  mere  recognition  and  regard,  for 
my  mark  was  the  cliff  ledges  —  the  great  sloping 
shields  of  the  limestone  that,  like  armour  of  scales 
on  some  primeval  dragon,  overlap  around  the  front 
this  headland  opposes  to  the  sea. 

Here,  amid  steep  slopes  subtending  cliffwards,  grew 
common  things  and  others  not  seen  daily  by  man. 
Upon  abrupt  undulations,  shattered  and  broken  by 
steps  of  stone,  dwelt  furzes  and  brambles  and  gnarled 
blackthorns,  tree-mallows,  teasels,  dyer's  rocket,  huge 
crucifers,  with  pale  violet  blossoms,  the  everlasting 
pea,  hound's-tongue,  dying  grasses,  and  trailing  briars. 
It  was  the  home  of  rabbits  and  the  haunt  of  raptorial 
birds.  Seed  from  thistle  and  hawkweed  scattered  in 
down  upon  the  air ;  great  heat  brooded  everywhere, 
and  only  a  solitary  sheep  track,  marked  by  flecks  of 
wool  on  the  trailing  thorns,  indicated  any  method  of 
advance.  A  stridulation  of  young  grasshoppers  was 
music  proper  to  the  visible  tremor  of  the  air  along 
these  sun-baked  slopes ;  once  a  heath-lark  sprang  up 
from  under  my  feet ;  once  a  wire-haired  terrier  joined 
me  for  a  while,  nosed  hither  and  thither,  performed 


ioo  MY  DEVON   YEAR 

deeds  of  daring  on  the  cliff  edge,  and  then  vanished 
magically  as  he  had  arrived. 

I  pursued  my  way  among  the  crags,  and  sought 
with  one  effort  to  grave  a  mental  picture  of  that 
spacious  scene  on  my  mind,  with  another,  that  nar- 
rowed my  eyes,  sharpened  my  attention  to  a  gimlet 
point,  and  concentrated  mental  activity  on  particulars, 
to  win  from  the  under-shrubs  and  herbage  some  newly- 
opened  blossom  that  no  eye,  save  that  of  gull  or  hawk 
or  shining  lizard,  had  ever  rested  on  before. 

Half-hidden  in  the  furze-clumps,  his  foliage  almost 
fern-like  in  its  delicate  details  and  slender  stems,  I 
found  the  lesser  meadow-rue,  a  rare  plant,  and  seldom, 
if  ever,  seen  off  the  limestone  ;  while  instantly  on  this 
success  there  came  a  still  greater  discovery.  Suddenly 
at  my  feet  appeared  a  golden  bead  set  in  five  silvery 
petals,  and  I  saw  the  white  rock-rose — that  scarce  and 
precious  beauty  whose  British  dwelling-places  are 
limited  to  two.  Yet  here  she  prospers,  stars  the  arid 
earth,  spreads  forth  her  foliage  of  hoary  green,  and 
thrives  to  the  kiss  of  the  sun  and  the  wind,  many  a 
good  mile  from  the  nearest  of  the  regions  mentioned. 

Have  I,  then,  been  privileged  to  add  an  English 
"station"  to  our  botany  for  Helianthemum  polifolium? 
The  possibility  excited  me  to  enthusiasm,  but  I 
could  only  hug  this  pleasing  dream  to  my  heart 
until  again  within  reach  of  books.  And  then  I  found 
that  a  botanist,  who  has  slept  these  many  days,  met 
my  little  golden-eyed  lady  here  in  1862 — the  year  that 
I  was  born !  I  have  merely  rediscovered  one  of  her 


A   WHITE   ROCK-ROSE  10; 

forgotten  homes.  And  still  between  the  sun  and  sea 
she  hides,  happy  and  prosperous ;  still  year  after  year 
she  opens  virgin  eyes  on  the  sky  and  the  birds  and 
the  companions  of  her  lonely  dwelling-place.  Behold 
her,  therefore,  a  creature  more  rare  than  queens  ;  but 
raise  no  sacrilegious  hand  against  her ;  touch  her  not ; 
do  fitting  obeisance,  and  so  pass  upon  your  way. 


YOUNG    TAMAR 

JESTING  in  the  grass,  waiting  for  the  trout 
to  rise,  my  face  is  little  higher  than  the 
meadows,  and  but  for  a  sudden  bend  in 
the  bank  and  a  gentle  whisper  in  the  air, 
one  would  not  guess  at  the  propinquity  of  a  river. 
Here,  however,  Tamar  flows,  the  mother  of  all  this 
beauty,  a  stream  of  slow  and  stately  passage,  moving 
forward  through  meadows  and  daisy-dotted  pastures, 
between  banks  of  many- coloured  clay — clay  of  all 
shades  from  bright  amber  beneath  the  water,  to  silver 
above  it. 

Thus  Tamar  wins  her  personal  charm,  for  a  clay 
stream  she  is,  and  from  her  cradle  receives  a  delicate 
and  mellow  tone  that  becomes  almost  opaque  in  the 
deep  pools  and  hovers,  shines  like  liquid  gold  where 
sunlight  pierces  the  forest  shadows,  and  thins  to  a 
delicate  and  milky  tinge  where  the  river  slides  over 
shallows  or  mossy  weirs. 

A  stream  of  many  moods  is  she,  with  fresh  charms  at 
every  bend  and  turn;  not  the  least  backwater  or  tinkling 
fall  but  delights  in  its  particular  ornature  and  distinction. 
Where  the  river  shines  along  straight  reaches,  the 
banks  tell  the  progress  of  Summer  and  the  shrinking 


102 


YOUNG   TAMAR  103 

of  the  stream,  for  they  dry  gradually  as  the  river  re- 
cedes, but  always  retain  moisture  for  some  inches 
above  the  water-level.  Everything  in  this  valley  is 
fresh,  delicious,  and  unexpectedly  original,  as  becomes 
a  young  stream  full  of  hope  and  promise ;  never  a  curve 
or  dip  but  has  its  proper  arrangement  of  sedges  and 
young  rush,  pungent  water-mint  and  luxuriant  reeds 
springing  above  the  water;  even  the  old,  dead  alder,  that 
uplifts  a  lichened  ghost  where  once  it  gloried  in  all  the 
splendour  of  russet  catkins,  neat  cones,  and  whispering 
leaves,  lacks  not  for  grace.  This  skeleton  at  the 
feast  of  the  living  has  a  charm  ;  and  beyond  the 
wreck,  young  Tamar,  moved  to  sudden  softness,  dips 
behind  a  little  peninsula  of  green  flags  and  decks 
her  loveliness  in  a  garment  of  hawthorn — a  true 
bridal  robe  of  silver  and  of  pearl.  Everywhere  round 
about  the  snow-white  may  trees  light  the  valley,  skirt 
the  spinnies,  or  stand  in  their  glory  alone  upon  the 
meadows.  But  at  Tamar  side  they  are  most  fair  to 
see,  for  there  they  bend  and  cluster,  scent  the  air  with 
sweetness,  mass  up  gloriously  against  the  summer 
blue,  bend  humbly  and  lay  white  garlands  upon  the 
bosom  of  the  river.  Presently  their  purity  will  flush 
to  pink  at  the  first  whisper  of  the  end,  and  the  million 
petals,  that  have  seen  their  little  pictures  reflected 
beneath  through  the  glory  of  June,  will  fall  and  flow 
away  along  the  shining  highway  of  their  dreams. 
Then,  too,  the  irises,  now  twinkling  in  a  golden  galaxy 
against  their  blue-green  leaves,  will  fade  and  curl  dead 
blossoms  round  their  swelling  seed-pods. 


104  MY   DEVON    YEAR 

Tamar's  July  dress  is  gold-bright  clay  set  in  meadow- 
sweets, garlanded  with  woodbines,  bryonie^,  and  the 
trailing  splendours  of  dog-roses  and  field-roses.  These 
briars  mingle  their  pink  and  white  in  loving  tangles 
over  the  water ;  while,  ashore,  the  ragworts  shake  out 
fire  in  stars  and  flashes  ;  the  butterfly  orchis  brings 
her  scent,  and  the  marsh  orchis  springs  sprightly 
beside  her  ;  buttercups  and  daisies  and  little  variegated 
vetchlings  enamel  the  grass  everywhere ;  at  hand  the 
purple  loosestrife  lifts  his  spires  along  the  river ;  the 
golden  petty  whin  and  the  meadow  thistle  also  stray 
hither ;  and  countless  other  buds  and  bells  and  starry 
things  make  a  home  in  every  glade  and  sleepy 
backwater. 

Follow  a  wood-pigeon's  flight  and  you  shall  note 
the  low  wood-crowned  hills  that  rise  to  east  and  west 
of  the  river.  Here  coverts,  cunningly  planted  in 
old  time,  spread  along  the  undulating  land ;  and 
little  humped  elms,  dwarfed  by  winds  from  the  sea, 
stud  each  low  hedgerow  and  climb  to  the  horizon. 
Young  oaks  abound  in  the  copses,  and  they  shine 
under  the  sun  contrasted  with  the  neighbouring 
pines.  Above  these  woods  stretch  grazing  lands, 
and  hay  lands,  and  noble  expanses  of  young  corn. 

In  Tamar's  valley  Contentment  has  found  a  haunt. 
At  set  of  sun,  when  these  clay  banks  glow  and  the 
murmuring  shallows  gleam  with  fire  ;  when  the  voice 
of  the  water  is  a  thanksgiving  stealing  upward  and  the 
harmonious  murmur  of  those  things  that  only  rivers 
know  ;  then  Content  moves  along  the  dewy  grasses 


YOUNG   TAMAR  105 

and  dreams  beside  the  silent  pools.  In  the  gloaming 
hour  I  have  felt  her  wandering  near  me  ;  by  night 
I  have  divined  her  presence  on  Tamar's  dark  brink ; 
but  I  have  never  seen  her,  for  her  concern  and  her 
abiding-place  are  not  with  men. 


THE   LAKE   BY   THE   SEA 


HE  place  nestles  within  a  wide  crescent  of 
gentle  hills  that  tend  towards  the  sea,  and 
shine  at  this  season  with  ripening  corn  and 
bright  red  earth,  with  fresh  green  of  root 
crops,  and  gentle  bloom  of  summer  forests  that  mark 
the  undulations  of  the  land.  Near  the  western  point 
of  this  semicircle  the  Start's  white  lighthouse  stands, 
and  eastward  tall  cliffs  arise,  from  which  the  whole 
subtending  scene  is  visible,  and  miles  of  glittering 
mere  may  be  perceived  in  one  glance  of  the  eye. 
Here  spreads  a  lake,  so  near  the  sea  that  the  waves 
make  their  music  to  the  tarn,  and  great  reeds  that 
fringe  it  return  messages  on  the  land  breeze.  Beaches 
of  bright  shingle,  shining  sands,  and  miles  of  flowers 
lie  between  the  silver  fresh  water  and  the  blue  salt. 
Soft  grey  enfolds  the  scene  on  this  day  of  Summer, 
and  beneath  a  bright  sky,  wherein  the  light  is  diffused 
in  an  equable  and  pearly  haze  just  slashed  and  fretted 
with  blue  like  a  fair  sea-shell,  this  ley  of  reeds  and 
lilies,  together  with  its  banks  of  verdure,  the  sands 
around,  and  the  sea  beyond,  weave  such  a  robe  of 

106 


THE   LAKE   BY   THE   SEA  107 

wonderful  colour  for  the  earth  as  shall  seldom  adorn 
even  summer  hours.  Here  two  aqueous  worlds 
lie  side  by  side,  the  one  full  of  visible  loveli- 
ness and  upspringing  life,  the  other  hiding  all  its 
wonders  beneath  a  blue  and  purple  curtain,  touched 
with  light  and  fringed  with  silver.  Passing  along 
between  them  I  wander,  first  to  the  shore  of  the  great 
waters,  then  to  the  margin  of  the  lake,  and  then  to 
the  shore  again,  even  as  the  gulls  cross  back  and 
forth  from  their  proper  home  to  float  with  the  black 
coots,  brown  dabchicks,  and  moorhens,  and  cackle  to 
them  of  the  wonders  of  the  deep.  Swans  also  lord 
it  here,  swelling  along  with  snowy  bosoms  that  leave 
a  shining  wake.  A  pair  having  three  grey  cygnets 
squeaking  astern,  mistrusted  me,  and  hissed,  and 
flashed  their  snakes'  eyes  at  me,  then  with  strong, 
unseen  strokes  of  their  black  webs,  rode  away  over  the 
rippling  shallows  into  deep  water  and  safety. 

The  lake  and  the  shore,  separated  by  a  straight 
white  road,  blend  indeed  into  a  complete  picture, 
yet  preserve  their  characteristics,  and  yield  obedi- 
ence to  the  sea  on  one  side  and  the  lagoon  upon 
the  other.  Those  things  that  love  the  ley  lie  inland, 
while  on  the  southern  side  thrive  the  creatures  of  salt 
soil  and  salt  breezes.  These  stretch  tendrils  and  nod 
blossoms  to  the  sea  ;  they  venture  over  the  sandy 
shingle  even  to  the  confines  of  high  tides ;  they 
prosper  in  the  rack  of  old  storms,  trail  fair  blossoms 
amid  fragments  from  ancient  wrecks  and  the  orts  and 


io8  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

ruins  of  man's  contrivances  that  have  floated  hither 
from  the  ships.  Here,  amid  chaos  of  pebble  and 
planes  of  sand,  springs  the  sea-holly's  silvery -blue 
foliage  and  darker  bloom  ;  various  spurges  thrive 
beside  it  with  green  leaves  and  flowers,  and  the 
glaucous  leaf  of  the  horned  poppy  makes  yet  another 
shade  of  lovely  silver-green  against  the  more  verdant 
growths  and  its  own  corn -coloured  blossoms.  The 
sea-convolvulus  has  a  white  star  of  five  rays  within 
her  rosy  chalice.  She  lies  upon  the  sand  and  shines 
up  at  the  rain-clouds  ;  and  not  far  distant  the  rare 
purple  spurge  still  haunts  these  strands,  and  straggles 
ruddy  upon  them.  Above  the  actual  beach  small 
things  work  an  embroidery  of  brightness  into  the 
grass,  and  wild  thyme  and  bedstraw  spread  their 
purple  and  gold  underfoot.  Here,  too,  the  round- 
leaved  mallow  opens  its  pale  eyes ;  while  beside  the 
mere  grows  that  minute  and  most  rare  herb,  the 
strap -wort;  and  the  tiny  littorella  blooms  close  at 
hand  in  the  marsh.  Rabbits  hop  along  the  low 
dunes,  and  sheep  graze  there  and  shine  very  white 
after  shearing. 

Here  springs  up  the  wormwood  in  delicate  silver 
sprays  just  breaking  to  lemon -coloured  bloom.  Its 
sweetness  and  clean  freshness  of  scent  seem  won 
from  the  salt  sea  and  dry  earth  touched  with  rain. 
A  noble  contrast  offers  in  the  viper's  bugloss,  whose 
abundant  spires  of  sapphire -blue,  touched  with 
carmine,  gleam  above  the  yellow  sands.  Thrift 


THE   LAKE   BY   THE   SEA  109 

also  flourishes,  the  great  mullein  spreads  its  woolly 
foliage,  and  the  teasel  rises  tier  on  tier,  each  leaf- 
cup  holding  a  jewel  caught  from  the  last  shower. 
The  hound's-tongue  has  parted  with  its  dark  blossoms, 
but  it  owes  its  name  to  the  seed-cases  that  now  stick 
in  hundreds  to  the  passer-by  as  he  brushes  against  a 
dying  plant ;  while  the  black  henbane — that  maligned, 
yet  not  malignant  herb — still  opens  pale  maize- 
coloured  blossoms  fretted  with  purple  traceries  round 
the  gloomy  centre  of  each  flower.  Its  scent  so 
strange,  its  foliage  so  exquisite,  its  power  so  tre- 
mendous, make  it  attractive  beyond  common.  Here 
it  abides  dreaming  amid  the  innocent,  open-eyed, 
familiar  things — a  creature  apart,  a  plant  of  mystery 
that  still  retains  the  keys  of  sleep  and  death. 

The  lake  stretches  far  away,  all  rippled  with  light 
and  wind,  to  the  farther  bank  under  a  grove  of 
elms.  Green  reeds  wave  here  in  long,  true  lines 
against  the  water,  and  where  the  breezes  die  and 
the  frosted  silver  of  the  ley  passes  into  a  placid 
sheet  along  the  margin,  images  of  the  upland  and 
wood  are  mirrored  as  in  a  glass,  and  shine — each 
twig  and  sedge,  each  red  hill  and  white  cottage — 
perfectly  reflected.  Beneath  the  reeds  a  splash  of 
brighter  green  lies  upon  the  water ;  and  the  flower- 
lover  is  glad,  for  he  knows  full  well  that  the  queen 
of  the  lake  dwells  there  and  glitters  amid  the  great, 
sprawling  masses  of  her  foliage.  All  shades  of  green, 
flecked  with  shining  light  from  the  sky,  adorn  these 


no  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

huge  leaves.  They  float  and  flutter  in  a  medley  here, 
and  lift  their  rims  and  faces  in  lovely  fulness  of  life, 
while  amidst  them,  the  opening  buds  expand,  petal 
upon  petal,  until  pure  gold  shall  be  seen  glimmering 
in  their  hearts.  Beside  the  water-lilies,  other  things 
are  also  happy  ;  fragrant  mints  give  out  their  scent 
as  one  treads  upon  them  ;  the  pennyroyal  lies  in  the 
grass;  the  spear -wort  flames;  the  crowfoot's  white 
stars  twinkle  everywhere  ashore  and  afloat ;  the  sweet 
chamomile's  daisies  attend  every  step ;  the  burr-mary- 
gold  flourishes  ;  and  the  water  persicaria's  rosy  blooms 
arise  above  its  narrow  leaves,  where  they  ride  at 
anchor,  with  trailing  milfoil,  in  the  crystal.  Here 
are  burr-reeds  and  sedges,  rushes,  scarlet-veined 
docks,  and  the  first  flowers  of  the  flowering  rush. 
They  ascend  amidst  sedge  and  reed  in  exquisite  umbels 
of  blossom  that  twinkle  like  pink  fairy  lights  against 
the  green. 

All  of  which  things,  and  their  home  and  the  tender 
sky  above  them,  breathe  out  and  embrace  perfection 
in  their  sort.  The  secret  of  that  day  was  harmony — 
the  rarest  of  human  emotions,  whose  transport  comes 
to  the  heart  so  seldom,  whose  endurance  is  so  brief. 
As  the  dew  of  heaven  on  thirsty  fields,  such  moments 
fill  and  satisfy  the  intellect  and  aspiration.  But  they 
cannot  be  commanded ;  seek  them,  and  you  shall 
never  find  them  ;  hug  them  to  your  heart  when  you 
have  chanced  upon  them,  and  they  vanish  like  a 
rainbow. 


THE   LAKE   BY   THE   SEA  in 

Arundo,  the  great  reed,  masses  grandly  here  under 
the  grey  sky,  and  each  spear-shaped  blade  rubs 
against  its  neighbour  until  the  whole  rond  makes  silky, 
sleepy  music,  hushes  the  hour  to  silence,  and  calls 
its  children  to  their  secret  homes.  Immediately 
above  this  kingdom  a  grey  haze  floats,  touched  with 
warmer  colour.  This  cloud  moves  not,  for  it  is  com- 
posed of  last  year's  naked  flower-stalks,  and  its  place 
will  soon  be  yielded  up  to  the  purple  panicles  of 
Autumn.  Once,  in  the  old  times  before  land  drain- 
age, the  reed-ronds  of  the  West  Country  covered 
miles,  and  represented  a  considerable  harvest.  The 
culms  were  used  for  thatching,  and  are  still  counted 
better  than  straw  in  many  districts.  Earlier  yet,  this 
grass  was  employed  as  a  pen,  but  quickly  passed  into 
disuse  when  the  bird's  quill  took  its  place.  Merlin 
wrote  his  verses  with  the  great  reed,  and  Gildas,  the 
father  of  British  history,  bitterly  assaulted  the  Saxon 
invaders  of  his  country  with  such  a  weapon,  though 
the  pen  was  not  so  mighty  as  the  sword  in  the  sixth 
century. 

Now  clouds  came  lower,  and  the  sky  of  blue  and 
silver  took  a  stain  in  the  midst  where  vapours 
massed.  Yet  there  was  only  a  whisper  of  soft  drops 
on  the  ley,  and  before  one  might  say  it  rained,  the 
shower  was  done,  the  gloom  had  passed,  and  sudden 
gold  broke  out  of  the  west,  with  shafts  of  light  that 
swept  round  swiftly  upon  themselves.  Beneath  that 
wonderful  sky,  amid  fresh  affinities  of  colour,  amid 


ii2  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

new  relations  of  lovely  things,  I  turned  homeward. 
Then  the  hour  grew  bright  under  splendour  of  sunset, 
and  its  evening  glory  became  exalted  by  contrast  with 
the  serene  and  pearly  illuminations  of  the  day  that 
was  done. 


(No.  i.)    THE  LAP  OF   PROSERPINE 


THE    LAP    OF    PROSERPINE 


HEN  leisure  allowed,  I  have  watched  the 
more  obvious  life  of  our  lanes  and  fields 
from  month  to  month,  and  so  gleaned  a 
little  sheaf  that  may  tempt  shrewder  ob- 
servers to  better  scrutiny  and  closer  seeking. 

During  January  I  walked  among  the  lanes,  and 
there  was  hushed  flight  of  starlings  above  me  and 
merry  convocation  where  they  dried  themselves  in 
a  sunny  hedgerow  after  bathing.  They  chattered, 
and  puffed  their  throat  feathers  and,  lifting  up  their 
long  beaks,  uttered  whistles  of  thanksgiving  to  the 
sun.  They  were  wintering  bravely,  and  knew  it  in 
every  metal-shining,  speckled  feather  of  them. 

At  this  time  I  found  the  plump  pillows  of  the  moss 
serving  as  cradles  for  the  spore  of  the  ferns,  and 
everywhere  from  green  cushions  in  sheltered  nooks 
sprang  forth  tiny  fernlets  in  the  early  stage  of  their 
strange  alternate  generation.  Seen  thus,  it  tasks  a 
botanist  to  know  their,  names  ;  but  the  hart's-tongue's 
offspring  seemed  to  my  sight  distinct ;  and  along 
I  113 


u4  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

the  crown  of  the  hedge-banks,  amid  silver  hazel- 
stems,  the  adult  ferns  luxuriated  and  shone,  with 
glossy  green  ribbons,  crinkled  and  puckered  and 
touched  with  light  of  the  low  sun.  Young  galiums 
sprouted  briskly,  sending  up  their  seed-leaves  from 
the  naked  earth ;  tiny  rosettes  of  the  little  hairy 
cardamine  were  also  prospering,  while  the  inner 
vesture  of  my  lane  at  this  season  might  well  be  noted, 
for  this  was  the  hour  of  the  lichens  in  pale  tones  of 
grey  and  silver  and  tender  brown ;  of  the  mosses 
with  their  misty  traceries  and  filigrees  ;  of  the  liver- 
worts, clinging  to  earth  and  stone  with  flat  green 
fingers ;  and  of  fungi  not  a  few.  Notably  like  a 
scarlet  gem,  the  fairy  cups  of  the  peziza  twinkled 
here  and  there,  set  off  by  rich  background  of  dead 
leaf  and  twig  and  russet  mould ;  while  nearest  of 
all  to  the  earth's  own  bosom,  veiling  it  like  a  silken 
garment,  dwelt  dim  growths,  no  thicker  than  a  wash 
of  colour — films  of  grey-green  and  pearly  grey — a 
living  texture  pressed  tight  against  the  heart  of  the 
Mother. 

Many  leaves  of  the  past  year  still  nourished  their 
roots,  and  the  wood-avens,  the  primrose,  the  violet, 
their  foliage  grown  enormous,  slowly  sank  to  the  sere, 
and  awaited  one  pinch  of  frost  to  end  them.  Else- 
where life  had  begun  anew  ;  the  wild  arum's  leaf-spike 
was  breaking  through  the  earth ;  and  the  leaves  of 
the  lesser  celandine  were  spreading  to  the  sun  with 
bold  designs  in  black  and  white  upon  their  shining 
green.  Late  in  the  month  there  came  a  silver  dawn 


THE   LAP   OF   PROSERPINE          115 

of  catkins  on  the  earliest  sallows,  a  silky  brightness 
that  trembled  like  dew  in  the  sun  ;  and  the  tassels  of 
the  hazel,  three  months  old  now,  were  also  swelling  to 
flower. 

During  February  a  general  stir  and  a  whisper 
moved  within  the  lanes,  and  no  fear  of  possible  frosts 
stayed  the  activity  of  the  living  things  there.  The 
young  growths  of  perennial  speedwells  were  turning 
purple  at  their  crowns  and  waking  into  action  ;  while 
the  seeds  of  annual  speedwells  germinated  and  spread 
twin  leaves,  like  wings.  Honeysuckles  were  in  strong 
leaf  of  jade-green  perched  daintily  in  bunches  along 
their  bines ;  bluebell  foliage  had  appeared  above 
ground  in  little  stars  of  green  spikes;  the  adult  catkins 
of  the  hazel  showered  their  yellow  pollen  and,  like 
tiny  sea-anemones  with  crimson  tentacles,  the  fruitful 
blossoms,  clinging  to  the  naked  stems  beneath,  re- 
ceived it,  and  marked  where  nuts  should  come  in 
season.  Many  mosses  at  this  time  were  fruiting  and 
many  had  long  been  in  fruit.  With  sweet  earth-smell 
they  glimmer,  all  be-diamonded  even  on  driest  days, 
for  they  draw  up  moisture  and  display  it  in  a  twink- 
ling haze  upon  their  feathers  and  cushions  and  deli- 
cate leaves  throughout  the  Winter.  Sometimes  they 
freeze  so,  and  shine  out  from  silvery  frostwork 
of  ice. 

There  is  a  pond  in  the  lane  where  I  work,  and 
from  it,  as  the  second  month  departs,  there  arise  the 
love -croaks  of  frogs,  where  lances  of  light  come 
through  the  hedge  and  gleam  in  the  water.  Here 


n6  MY  DEVON   YEAR 

green  things — watercress  and  brooklime  and  marsh- 
wort — are  already  awake,  and  the  bank  above  them 
is  draped  with  ferns  and  ivy,  and  the  lesser  peri- 
winkles, whose  blue  blossoms,  among  the  first  of 
spring  flowers,  make  fine  colour  against  their  own 
bright  leaves. 

The  birds  drink,  and  thoughts  of  matrimony  are 
upon  the  air,  for  the  day  is  warm,  and  the  nook  is 
sheltered,  and  hope  of  Spring  high  in  the  hearts  of 
all  creatures.  Brown  field-mice  rustle  along  their  ivy- 
hidden  ways  invisible  ;  the  lesser  woodpecker  taps  in 
an  elm  above  my  head ;  and  where  Scotch  firs  ascend, 
there  is  great  business  of  eating,  for  little  shreds  of 
cone  flutter  down  in  a  shower.  Each  silvery  flake 
once  was  wing  of  a  seed,  but  the  seeds  are  under 
a  squirrel's  waistcoat  now.  Systematically  he  works 
from  base  to  crown  of  the  cone,  and  leaves  it  gnawed 
as  neatly  round  as  though  cut  with  a  lathe.  I  have 
caught  the  cone  so  treated  straight  from  his  paw,  as 
he  threw  it  down  and  bustled  to  some  bending  twig 
for  another. 

With  March  the  seedlings  begin  to  come  into 
their  own,  and  we  recognise  them  as  they  follow 
the  unchanging  way.  The  hairy  cardamine  has 
crowned  his  foliage  with  small  white  flowers ;  the 
speedwells  and  galiums  declare  themselves ;  the 
wild  onions  splash  the  hedge  with  fine  foliage,  and 
about  the  old  plants  countless  little  green  lancets 
spring  from  last  year's  seed.  The  green  hellebore 
is  a  rare  treasure,  and  her  verdant  bells  down-drooping 


THE   LAP   OF   PROSERPINE          117 

over  the  deeper  green  of  her  foliage  are  surpassed 
in  grace  by  few  growing  things.  With  her,  too,  comes 
the  daffodil — grown  rarer  as  a  wild  flower  of  late 
years. 

The  elms  have  thickened  overhead  and  shine  out 
with  a  warm  ruddiness  under  pale  skies.  It  is 
good  to  escape  from  the  sharp  East  wind  in  this 
sunny  rut  of  a  lane ;  for  the  sweet  violets,  both  blue 
and  white,  haunt  the  hedge-banks  now ;  the  mouse- 
ear  chickweed  is  in  bloom ;  the  rose  and  bramble 
break  into  leaf,  one  green,  one  grey ;  and  the  pot  en  - 
tilla's  white,  golden-eyed  blossoms  shine  bravely. 
Primroses  on  pink,  downy  stems  open  singly,  in  the 
hollows  the  wood-spurge  shines  out  on  the  hedge- 
top,  dog's-mercury  shows  its  tassels,  and  the  golden- 
green  saxifrage  spreads  her  blossoms  by  the  water. 
The  modest  moschatel  also  blooms  now — a  tender 
thing  that  raises  its  little  closely-packed  cluster  of 
blossoms  from  amidst  stouter  creatures  of  the  way. 
Daisies  and  lesser  celandines  gladden  March  and 
scatter  each  lane  with  their  silver  and  gold. 

There  is  busy  nest-building  forward  too.  Piles  of 
sticks  swell  aloft  in  the  elms  to  clamorous  chorus  of 
the  dusky  workmen  ;  scarcely  a  bird  has  an  empty 
bill.  Round  balls  of  hair  and  lichen  grow  on  orchard 
trees  where  the  chaffinches  design  a  home  ;  thrush 
and  blackbird  plant  their  houses  boldly  in  the  arm 
of  any  low  dense  bush,  under  an  ivy-tod,  or  hard  by 
the  budding  bluebells  of  the  hedge-bank.  The  robin 
builds  in  holes,  the  starling  and  nuthatch  in  hollow 


n8  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

trees,  and  the  latter  plasters  up  a  portion  of  the  egress 
if  it  be  too  large  for  her  purposes. 

In  April  comes  bud-break,  and  the  glory  of  the 
larches  and  hazels,  alders,  elders,  maple,  and  the 
rest.  Blackthorn  has  been  in  full  flower  since  March, 
primroses  are  at  their  best,  wood-anemones  and  blue- 
bells are  blooming,  and  dog-violets  make  patches  of 
purple  in  the  sunny  angles  of  every  lane.  The 
hedge  galium,  with  others  of  his  kind,  is  turning, 
creeping,  running,  rioting  everywhere  ;  the  goose- 
grass  is  first  to  flower,  followed  by  the  golden  cross- 
wort  ;  while  the  greatest  of  the  galiums,  frequent 
here,  but  rare  elsewhere — the  wild  madder — prepares 
green  flowers  and  thickens  into  masses,  though  it 
never  holds  light  and  life  from  other  things.  Wood- 
ruff is  not  common,  but  haunts  the  fringes  of  forests. 
Now  all  the  wild,  tangled  lacework  of  the  hedge — briar 
and  bramble,  woodbine,  woody  nightshade,  and  the 
vetches — are  beginning  to  bud  for  bloom.  Busy 
tendrils  are  clinging ;  ferns  are  uncurling ;  foliage  of 
all  imaginable  shape,  and  spring,  and  curve,  and  droop 
obeys  the  law,  and  spreads,  and  falls,  and  climbs,  and 
creeps,  and  trembles  in  translucent  green  to  the  kiss 
of  the  wind  and  patter  of  the  rain.  It  is  a  time  of 
delicate  green  sheaths  and  vernal  showers  upon  them, 
of  things  hid  in  the  bud  and  the  egg.  Bright-eyed 
mothers  with  their  bodies  pressed  upon  nests  peep 
forth  in  patience  from  a  thousand  bowers.  The 
hour  is  awake  and  waiting.  Only  the  throats  of 
the  birds,  banishing  all  silence,  sing  with  exulta- 


THE   LAP   OF   PROSERPINE          119 

tion  and  expectance.  And  Nature,  under  each  green 
leaf  and  out  of  the  death  of  last  year,  prepares  the 
supply  for  the  coming  demand,  spreads  the  banquet 
of  countless  insects  for  the  tiny  throats  that  will  soon 
gape  in  her  nurseries.  Also  I  know  how  the  fat 
infant  thrush  must  go  to  the  weasel's  maw  that  she 
may  the  better  suckle  her  young  ;  how  certain  of 
the  blackbird's  fledglings  will  make  no  music,  but 
serve  to  gladden  the  young  jays.  Many  a  squeaking, 
new-born  rabbit,  sniffing  his  first  wild  thyme,  will  also 
be  snatched  out  of  all  the  joys  of  his  little  life  that  the 
crow's  brood  may  flourish,  or  the  young  of  the  hawk 
prosper.  The  spirit  of  life  forgets  none  of  the  infinite 
infantile  family  : 

"  It  spreadeth  forth  for  flight  the  eagle's  wings 

What  time  she  beareth  home  her  prey ;  it  sends 
The  she-wolf  to  her  cubs ;  for  unloved  things 
It  findeth  food  and  friends." 

Never  was  a  platitude  put  more  pleasantly. 

Of  plants,  the  umbel-bearers  are  busy  with  foliage, 
here  delicate,  here  rampant  and  coarse,  here  fine  and 
ferny,  as  in  the  chervils,  or  stone-parsley,  or  hedge- 
parsleys  ;  here  distinctive,  as  in  the  sanicle,  or  the 
lady's-mantle  ;  here  massive  and  even  gigantic,  as  in 
the  cow-parsnip  and  alexanders,  or  moisture-loving 
angelica  and  water- drop  wort.  Speedwells  are  blossom- 
ing sky-blue  and  azure-veined,  and  the  perfect  chalice 
of  the  wood-sorrel — like  sparkling  snow  laced  with  a 
network  of  amethyst — hangs  and  trembles  at  its  own 


120  MY  DEVON   YEAR 

beauty  where  the  splendour  of  the  mosses  is  slowly 
departing.  The  spindle  tree  buds,  and  from  the  elm 
now  falls  a  rain  of  flower-petals  infinitely  small. 
They  strew  the  way  beneath,  even  as  presently  the 
leaf-sheaths  of  the  beech  will  scatter  a  silver-toned 
mantle  under  the  woods  and  on  to  the  wind-flowers. 
Now  the  red  ploughed  lands  grow  paler  at  the 
kiss  of  the  wind.  Each  day  the  moisture  in  them 
lessens,  and  they  diminish  from  the  deep  Devon 
hue  to  a  delicate  pink  against  the  sky-line.  But 
where  the  harrows  scratch  their  faces  the  riper  colour 
gleams  again. 

I  see  now  that  the  black  bryonies  best  start 
their  life's  brief  journey  in  companionship,  and  so, 
cuddling  round  and  round  each  other  like  a  living 
rope,  mutually  support  their  twin  strands.  With 
doubled  strength  they  play  their  part  in  the  common- 
wealth, climb  aloft  among  honeysuckles  and  clematis, 
now  adorn  the  way  with  tiny  inflorescence  like  sprays 
of  green  dew,  and  presently  fruit  in  scarlet  clusters 
that  are  amongst  the  last  fine  things  to  perish  in 
December.  But  the  common  bryony  is  absent  from 
Devon — a  circumstance  to  note,  for  few  are  the  wild 
flowers  that  find  this  county  inhospitable ;  and  many 
of  the  hardy  northern  folk  would  abide  on  Dart- 
moor's heart  if  they  might  but  wander  South  to 
her.  It  may  be  noted  for  such  as  love  figures  and 
flowers  that  but  a  trifling  bouquet  from  the  wealth  of 
Devonshire  lanes  can  be  culled  in  this  paper.  I  think 
not  above  three  hundred  plants  are  mentioned,  yet 


THE   LAP   OF   PROSERPINE          121 

near  five  hundred  will  be  found  to  flourish  in  such 
spots  as  these  I  name — a  number  exceeding  one- 
quarter  of  the  total  British  flora.  As  for  the  whole 
county,  embracing  its  shores  and  high  hills,  water 
meadows,  river  margins,  estuaries  and  lone  waste 
places,  you  shall  find  therein  above  half  of  the  in- 
digenous flowering  plants  of  the  kingdom. 

In  May  life  breaks  loose,  and  no  chronicler  can  tell 
more  than  a  fraction  of  the  story  of  the  lanes.  Every- 
where is  the  crisp  chirrup  of  new-born  birds,  from 
the  pigeon's  two  or  three  downy  young,  perilously 
perched  on  the  fir  in  roughest  fabric — a  twig  be- 
tween them  and  death — to  the  eight  or  ten  atoms  of 
life,  all  eyes,  in  a  wren's  home.  There  is  ceaseless 
industry,  and  brave  work  of  grub-hunting  and  fly- 
catching. 

The  cuckoo-flower's  faint  lavender  is  by  the  pond, 
the  herb-robert  and  the  shining  crane's-bill,  the  rosy 
campion  and  the  mallow  flush  the  way ;  and,  aloft,  the 
hawthorn  breaks  its  round  buds  above  the  tiny  forget- 
me-not,  that  is  born  yellow  and  dies  blue ;  above  the 
brightness  of  the  greater  celandine,  and  the  spotted 
orange  and  scarlet  of  the  " archangels,"  and  white  dead 
nettles,  and  the  tangle  and  triumphant  upspringing  of 
the  grasses.  There  are  a  few  sedges  also  here,  and, 
by  the  pond,  various  of  the  more  common  rushes  swell 
and  break  for  flowers.  The  maple  leaves  are  most  deli- 
cate, diaphanous,  and  beautiful  at  this  season,  and  the 
crab-apple's  clustered  blossoms,  all  pink  and  white, 
with  lemon  anthers,  peep  aloft.  Elsewhere,  the  way- 


122  MY   DEVON    YEAR 

faring  tree  and  his  cousin  the  guelder-rose  light  the 
path ;  and  the  wild  cherry  also,  with  tassels  of  drooping 
flowers.  He  shines  up  against  the  blue  sky,  like  a 
cloud  set  on  a  silver  stem,  and  in  his  bending  blossoms 
black  humble-bees  make  a  pleasant  sound.  The  nettle 
buds  to  flower,  and  the  labiate  folk — hemp-nettle, 
hedge  -  woundwort,  betony,  and  calamint,  perhaps 
even  the  splendid  bastard  balm — make  ready.  This 
last,  indeed,  will  soon  open  his  pale  rosy  trumpets — 
a  very  fair  and  rare  thing  that  nestles  in  lonely  old 
lanes  upon  the  confines  of  ancient  woods,  and  shares 
the  same  with  the  starry  ramsons  and  the  twayblade, 
with  the  columbine,  the  mountain  willow-herb,  and 
wood  loosestrife. 

Of  ferns  the  dusky  ceterach,  his  under-leaf,  dor- 
mouse-colour, opens  in  the  old  masonry  beside  the 
wall-spleenworts ;  and  polypody  creeps  along  the 
oak-branch  with  sure  foothold  in  the  mosses  there  ; 
brake-ferns  uncurl  their  silver  crooks  among  the  blue- 
bells on  the  hedge-top,  and  the  English  maidenhair 
spleenwort  and  black  spleenwort  flourish  below.  The 
shield-fern,  the  male-fern,  and  the  lady-fern  are  here 
also,  with  countless  hart's  -  tongues  and  other  less 
common  of  the  clan. 

Then  comes  June,  when  all  Nature  is  lyric,  when 
constellations  of  great  and  lesser  starry  stitchwort 
shine  from  little  blue  skies  of  speedwells,  when 
buttercups  and  silver- weed  below  and  goldilocks  *  and 

*  Goldilocks^  the  ranunculus  so  called. 


THE   LAP   OF   PROSERPINE          123 

cinquefoil  above,  make  royal  colour,  and  when  the 
grasses  shake  out  plumes  and  feathers,  sprays  and 
drooping  panicles  of  flowers.  The  graceful  avens 
blossoms  now,  and  the  wood-strawberry  that  never 
sleeps  has  already  set  her  fruit. 

At  this  season  the  western  sun  searches  our  lanes 
in  the  long  evenings,  and  reveals  new  beauties  among 
the  dwellers  there.  Before  twilight,  at  the  evensong 
of  the  birds,  it  touches  the  snowy  field-rose  to  glory 
and  the  dog-rose  and  musk-mallow  to  red-gold  ;  it 
warms  the  unnumbered  greens  of  hedgerow  and  of 
tree ;  it  causes  the  dusky  nettles  to  shine,  and  lights 
the  great  and  little  docks'  inflorescence  into  tapers 
of  ruddy  flame  ;  it  turns  the  pale  willow-herb  to  a 
deeper  hue,  and  burns  here  and  there  upon  delicate 
living  things  in  the  nooks  and  draped  crannies  of  the 
earth.  Down  the  green  tunnels  its  level  beam 
awakens  harmony  of  shadows  barred  with  light. 
Then  the  sun  sets  and  the  last  song  is  sung ;  the 
West  glows  like  an  opal ;  darkness  under  no  grey 
cowl  of  cloud,  but  merely  in  semblance  of  tempered 
day,  holds  night  for  a  little  while ;  a  star  is  reflected 
like  a  diamond  in  the  pond  among  cresses  and 
forget-me-nots;  and,  northerly,  the  sun,  eager  to 
shine  upon  these  good  places  again,  steals  along  under 
the  edge  of  the  mountains  to  the  East,  while  tell- 
tale silver  upon  the  sky  marks  his  way  beneath  the 
horizon. 

I  question  if  there  be  a  scentless  blossom.  We  only 
smell  a  little,  and  our  sense  in  this  sort  is  on  a  par  with 


124  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

our  knowledge ;  but  among  the  excellent  contrivances 
of  flowering  plants  it  may  be  that  scent  has  a 
greater  part  than  we  can  prove  in  summoning  their 
winged,  hymeneal  servants.  The  glittering  hosts  are 
busy  here,  and  the  drone  and  under-song  of  them 
comes  to  the  ear  at  any  moment  when  the  birds  are 
silent.  Ichneumons — soldier-like,  shining  and  quick 
as  lightning — do  their  strange  duty  upon  the  many- 
footed,  fleshy  things  that  are  always  hungry  and  would 
eat  up  all — to  the  last  rose-petal,  but  for  these  stern 
workers.  The  honey-gatherers  make  varied  music, 
from  the  organ-note  of  the  humble-bee  to  the  higher- 
pitched  song  of  the  hive  workers.  They  leave  few 
flowers  untried ;  toil  at  the  next  blossom  to  that 
whereon  vanessa  opens  her  fairy  wings ;  labour 
in  the  heart  of  the  roses ;  tumble  upon  the  golden 
tutsan ;  test  the  dandelion  and  convolvulus,  the  lurid 
spikes  of  stachys,  and  the  sprays  of  the  vetches 
all  purple  and  gold.  They  scatter  the  may  and 
cherry,  and  break  down  the  frail  petals  of  the  blue- 
eyed  flax.  By  night  the  bright  flies  and  bees  and 
butterflies  cease  from  their  cares,  and  then  comes 
the  moth-time,  and  dim,  soft  things  seek  the  white 
campion's  nocturnal  eyes,  or  the  pale  trumpets  of 
the  moon-creeper.  Great  shard-borne  beetles  boom 
past  upon  their  business  in  the  open  ;  the  sphinx- 
moth  passes  like  a  mystery  ;  the  churn-owl  makes  his 
strange  song ;  the  bats  squeak  aloft  and  hunt  the 
chafers  around  the  fir  trees.  Dor-beetles  maintain  a 
crisp  throb  of  sound,  and  the  glow-worm  lights  a  little 


THE   LAP   OF   PROSERPINE          125 

lamp  for  her  love's  sake.  It  trembles  and  twinkles 
along,  touching  the  dew  and  the  grass-blade  and  the 
wood-strawberry. 

So  half  the  year  passes. 


THE    LAP    OF    PROSERPINE 

ii 

jULY  is  a  serious  month,  for  harvest  time 
approaches.  Now  her  amber  -  coloured 
mast  tones  the  raiment  of  the  beech ; 
maple  and  ash  shake  out  their  key-clusters, 
and  infant  hazel-nuts  peep  out  of  their  green  bibs  and 
tuckers.  The  avens  begins  to  pass,  and  soft  burrs  have 
taken  the  place  of  his  blossoms,  while  the  goose-grass 
leaves  fruit  to  cling  with  the  grass  seeds  on  each 
wayfarer.  Now  purple  of  knapweed  and  saw-wort 
brightens  the  way ;  fig-worts  blossom  in  chocolate  and 
gold,  the  sky-blue  sheep's  scabious  is  out,  and  the 
mauve  rosettes  of  the  gipsy-rose  bloom  nobly.  With 
them  many  bright  yellow  flowers  —  toad-flax,  sow- 
thistle,  goat's-beard,  lotus,  nipple-wort,  agrimony,  and 
St.  John's  worts — appear.  Of  these  last,  the  fairest 
by  far  is  the  slender  hypericum,  whose  bud  is  crimson, 
and  whose  habit  is  delicate  and  dainty  beyond  the 
rest.  Another  flower  of  modest  mien  that  loves 
seclusion  is  the  enchanter's  nightshade,  whose  pale 
spires  now  rise  above  heart-shaped  foliage  in  shadowy 
corners.  Prunella  and  ground-ivy  still  bloom  bravely, 

126 


(No.  2.)    THE   LAP  OF   PROSERPINE 


THE   LAP   OF   PROSERPINE          127 

and  the  blue  bugle  shines  over  the  grave  of  moschatel. 
Another  modest  little  lovely  thing  is  the  long-stalked 
geranium — rare  in  some  districts,  common  here.  Its 
twin  blossoms  nod  above  cut  leaves,  and  it  abides 
with  more  familiar  kinsmen  in  the  hedge,  or  shares 
the  lowest  place  with  the  marsh  cudweed  and  knot- 
weed  and  bartsia,  the  plantains  and  persicarias,  the 
tiny  field  madder  and  pearlwort,  at  the  feet  of  the 
great  burdock,  the  goose-foot,  and  other  giants  of 
the  ditch.  Now  wild  thyme  and  sweet  marjoram 
bloom  ;  there  are  mints,  too,  putting  forth  lavender 
or  pink  blossoms  by  the  way  and  in  the  water ;  while 
clown's  heal-all  also  stands  with  his  feet  in  the  damp 
for  choice,  and  adorns  the  pond-margin,  together  with 
hemp  agrimony  and  marsh  horse-tail,  valerian,  and 
ragged-robin.  The  trefoils  and  clovers  are  seeding, 
the  iris  has  strange  leaden-coloured  blooms  scattered 
amongst  its  swords,  and  the  creeping  thistle  blossoms 
where  the  boys  have  suffered  him  to  reach  perfection. 
But  his  arrogant  carriage  is  a  challenge  that  few  young- 
sters can  pass  unanswered  ;  so  the  more  distinguished 
thistles  keep  out  of  lanes  and  flourish  best  in  wild 
desert  places  of  less  danger  and  difficulty. 

Under  the  deepening  green,  small  feathered  things 
sit  close  and  compare  notes  as  to  how  the  world 
strikes  them ;  they  peer  and  peer  and  flutter  and 
tumble  about — a  constant  anxiety  to  their  parents.  I 
love  to  see  Dame  Nature  keeping  her  infant  school, 
for  there  is  something  in  young  birds  beyond  the 
inevitable  implanted  instinct.  The  differences  of  their 


128  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

wits  and  dispositions  lie  beyond  our  seeing,  yet  that 
every  bird  and  mouse  has  its  proper  character,  I 
suspect.  Certainly  some  fledglings  are  sharper  than 
others,  show  a  keener  eye  for  their  parents'  return, 
and  a  more  masterful  knack  of  forcing  their  own 
particular  open  beak  upon  the  eye  of  the  bread- 
winner. Nature  reverses  our  error  in  this  matter, 
and  rewards  the  big,  strong  youngsters  for  their  big- 
ness and  their  strength.  We  keep  our  failures  under 
glass ;  we  suffer  them  in  their  turn  to  father  and 
mother  new  failures ;  but  Nature's  weaklings  fill  their 
proper  place  in  her  republic,  and  the  feeble  folk, 
making  a  meal  for  some  beast  better  equipped  than 
themselves,  thus  justify  the  Mother  of  all  her  children. 
Conscious  intelligence  unhappily  departs  from  Nature 
in  this  rational  and  golden  rule ;  but  amongst  the  aisles 
and  avenues  of  the  lanes  there  is  no  question  as  to  the 
wisdom  that  rules  and  brings  the  greatest  good  to  the 
greatest  number.  No  pitiful  sentimentality  bred  of 
ignorance  mars  the  work  here. 

August  sometimes  weaves  a  subtle  sense  of  weari- 
ness about  my  lanes.  The  emotion  naturally  lies  in 
me,  not  the  life  around  me ;  but  I  feel  now  in  pre- 
sence of  the  beginning  of  that  end  to  which  all  green 
things  are  born.  I  feel  it  even  as  I  feel  that  the 
deep  green  of  the  foliage  and  the  rich  darkness  of 
the  great  elm  is  the  darkness  before  dawn  of  Autumn. 
To-morrow  will  come  sudden  grateful  rain,  and  a 
thousand  opening  flower -buds  will  rebuke  these 
anticipations  ;  and  so,  banishing  thought  of  Autumn, 


THE   LAP   OF   PROSERPINE          129 

I  shall  look  closer,  and  find  that  evidence  of  hard 
work  well  done  now  throngs  the  bending  spray  and  fills 
each  little  seed-cup. 

Late  August  is  the  hour  of  the  yellow  composite 
blossoms,  but  it  needs  a  botanist  to  distinguish  you 
the  hawkbit  and  hawkbeard  and  hawkweed  folk  from 
one  another  and  from  many  more  of  the  dandelion- 
flowered  clans.  Only  the  mouse-ear  hawkweed  one 
may  easily  recognise  by  his  crimson-streaked  bud  and 
lemon  bloom ;  and  the  wall-lettuce's  spray  of  little 
flowers  is  also  distinctive,  while  the  ox-tongue's  huge 
habit  and  prickly  foliage  mark  him  as  a  personage 
apart.  Fragrant  ploughman's  spikenard  now  rises, 
and  of  lesser  things  the  rosy  wild  basil  is  fair  to 
see ;  its  congener,  the  aromatic  calamint,  blossoms 
in  pale  purple  beside  it ;  and  in  an  old  wall  or 
upon  some  stony  spot,  such  as  the  thyme  loves, 
the  exquisite  violet  of  the  little  basil  thyme  shall 
possibly  be  found.  Of  wall-lovers,  indeed,  one  might 
furnish  a  goodly  list,  and  some  I  name  presently 
when  treating  of  the  moorland  ways.  As  for  the 
deep  lanes,  when  artificial  stonework  banks  up  an 
earth-slip  or  fills  a  gap,  ivy-leaved  toad-flax  and 
pellitory  of  the  wall  soon  find  it ;  seeds  of  many 
things  fly  hither  on  their  little  parachutes,  and 
Devon's  only  saxifrage,  the  tiny  rue-leaved  variety, 
may  grace  the  spot  in  springtime,  with  his  minute 
but  ruddy  and  cheerful  presence. 

During  September  Nature  begins  to  reckon  up  her 
harvest,  much  of  which  has  already  returned  into  the 
K 


1 30  MY  DEVON   YEAR 

bosom  of  earth.  The  grasses  have  shed  their  seeds, 
and  their  flower-stems  are  dying  and  imparting  a  sere 
shade  of  grey  and  ochre  to  the  hedges.  From  the 
point  downwards  the  leaves  perish ;  and  beside  them 
the  docks  are  wasting,  and  the  foliage  of  many  humble 
things  that  pass  away  without  splendour  is  sinking 
obscurely.  But  from  the  fading  greens  spring  up  not 
a  few  handsome  fruits.  The  shining  triple  cases  of 
ramsons,  bluebells,  and  violets  are  open,  and  they 
part  with  their  harvest  freely ;  the  tiny  grain  of  the 
foxglove  is  ripe  in  the  seed-cone ;  and  so  are  the 
shining  black  seed-clusters  of  alexanders.  The  wood- 
sorrel  and  cardamine  have  springs  and  shoot  their 
treasures  far  and  wide.  The  campions'  chalice  brims 
with  black  seed,  and  the  pea  folk  hang  covered  with 
pods,  black  and  brown,  the  earliest  already  splitting, 
the  latest  scarce  out  of  their  swaddling  clothes.  The 
daggers  of  the  geranium  are  open  also,  and  the  shining 
orbs  of  the  stitchwort  have  burst  and  vanished  like 
bubbles. 

The  full  pomp  of  the  greater  harvest  is  not  yet, 
but  the  hazel-nuts  and  blackberries  are  ripe,  and 
broken  hedges  tell  that  the  boys  know  it.  The  arum's 
scarlet  corals  stud  each  fading  bank  or  nook,  and  of  a 
paler  scarlet  are  the  splendid  seed-clusters  of  the  fetid 
iris,  that  burst  out  where  their  heavy  green  cases  break 
the  stems  and  grow  yellow  and  gape  open.  Now  the 
morning  air  is  touched  with  coolness,  and  downy  seeds 
are  flying,  and  gossamers  glinting  everywhere. 

Lanes  vary  much  in  their  character,  and,  among 


THE   LAP   OF  PROSERPINE         131 

others,  there  are  a  sort  of  distinctive  minor  ways  that 
wind  about  the  footstool  of  Dartmoor,  that  lead 
upwards  through  wood  or  over  swelling  heaths, 
until  their  banks  decrease  and  dwindle,  and  they 
leap  out  into  the  central  waste.  Such  lanes  have 
their  proper  flora,  and  in  them,  beneath  wind-blown 
beech  and  tough  hornbeam,  may  be  found  a  variety 
of  plants  not  seen  in  the  deeper  and  more  verdant 
tracks  that  lie  below.  Here  are  sand  and  peaty 
loam,  with  the  herbs  and  grasses  proper  to  them. 
The  greater  and  lesser  furze  flourish  aloft,  and 
their  flowers  blow  generously  throughout  the  whole 
passage  of  the  months ;  the  shining  broom  is  also 
common,  and  beneath  him,  where  the  rabbits  burrow 
and  tunnel,  there  spring  heather  and  ling,  rise  purple 
foxgloves  and  mulleins,  wood-sage  and  delicate  scor- 
pion grass.  The  little  heath  galium  and  the  tormentil 
twine  together ;  the  lesser  dodder  tangles  furze  and 
heath  in  its  pink  meshes ;  the  eyebright  twinkles  on 
the  way;  and  the  milkwort  prospers  with  varied 
blooms  of  blue,  pink,  white,  and  a  lovely  variety, 
veined  and  fringed  with  blue,  that  I  have  met  with 
but  once. 

When  the  bilberry's  red  bells  are  shaking  in  spring- 
time, the  tiny  teesdalia  dwells  beside  it  here,  and  the 
upright  moenchia  also.  The  red  rattle  and  the  yellow 
follow  them,  with  the  hemp-nettle  and  sometimes  those 
weird  robbers,  the  broom-rapes,  though  they  may  be 
met  with  anywhere,  given  a  fitting  host.  Water-crow- 
foot and  little  blinks  float  in  marshy  corners,  and  where 
the  rills,  that  cut  many  a  lane  at  right  angles,  eddy 


1 32  MY   DEVON  YEAR 

into  small  backwaters.  Here,  also,  that  gay  foreigner, 
the  monkey-flower,  shall  sometimes  be  met  with.  He 
has  now  wisely  settled  amongst  us,  and  finds  Devon 
meet  all  his  requirements ;  while  near  neighbours  are 
the  yellow  rocket,  and  skull-cap,  and  meadow-sweet. 
An  orchis  or  two — the  early  purple,  the  spotted  hand- 
orchis,  the  marsh-orchis  and  the  lesser  butterfly-orchis 
- — may  be  found  in  such  a  moist  corner  also ;  and 
the  rare  sweet  cicely  haunts  one  lonely  spot  under  the 
Moor.  In  rocky  walls  grow  pale  English  stonecrop, 
yellow  wall-pepper,  and  navel-wort,  while  perhaps  a 
red  raspberry  twinkles  from  tall  canes  in  the  hedge 
above  them.  The  yarrow,  of  course,  climbs  to  any 
height  Devon  can  give  it ;  the  sneeze-wort,  its  kinsman, 
loves  lane  or  wayside,  where  it  flaunts  with  the  mug- 
wort  and  silvery  wormwood,  the  groundsel  and  its 
brother  the  ragwort.  Golden  tansy  likewise  loves 
such  a  home ;  and  sometimes,  above  the  devil's-bit 
scabious  in  a  damp  corner,  the  comfrey  will  spread  a 
deep  green  clump,  and  hang  aloft  white  or  livid  bells  in 
miniature  chimes.  Grasses,  too,  soften  and  drape  each 
bank,  and  the  little  wood-rush  strays  among  them. 

Hither  come  the  moor  creatures  and  the  birds  that 
love  the  uplands.  Foxes  trot  down  these  lonely  lanes 
by  night ;  wind-blown  crows  poke  and  pry  here  on 
stormy  days,  and  the  weasel  and  snake-like  stoat  are 
familiar  sights.  Above  them  the  great  woodpecker 
laughs  upon  his  undulating  way  in  air,  and  the  magpie 
clatters  his  castanets.  He  is  but  a  feeble  flier,  and  of 
all  winged  contrasts  you  may  find  none  more  marked 


THE   LAP   OF   PROSERPINE          133 

than  that  between  the  pie's  pompous,  ineffectual  passage 
and  the  grand  rush  of  a  wood-pigeon  on  the  wing. 
He  sets  the  air  humming  from  his  pinions,  and  one 
can  almost  fancy  his  wake  visible  in  it  as  he  passes. 

To  name  another  more  familiar  kind  of  lane  that 
possesses  a  special  flora,  I  will  choose  those  wind- 
ing ways  upon  the  limestone,  that  climb  up  to 
grassy  headlands  by  the  sea,  or  sink  down  into  the 
combes  of  the  coast.  These  bedeck  their  stony 
bosoms  with  some  of  the  fairest  gems  I  know,  and 
from  the  leafless  stars  of  colt's-foot  to  the  purple  tufts 
of  the  autumnal  squill,  such  spots  daily  adorn  their 
turfy  banks  and  stony  ledges  with  fresh  flowers,  and 
shine  into  November  with  the  snow  of  the  seeding 
clematis,  the  scarlet  fruit  of  bryony  and  rose,  honey- 
suckle and  hawthorn.  Here  most  surely  shall  be 
found  the  pink  centaury  great  and  small,  the  pleasant- 
smelling  rest-harrow,  the  privet,  and  the  dogwood. 

Parsley  piert  and  cudweed  are  among  the  very  little 
folks  ;  and  the  sprays  of  the  shaking-grass  and  the 
cathartic  flax  will  certainly  dance  their  minute  blos- 
soms on  the  breeze  beside  them.  Butcher's-broom, 
laden  with  bright  scarlet  berries  in  Spring,  is  a 
likely  visitor  tucked  into  the  hedge-bank ;  the 
ox-eye  daisy  and  other  daisy-flowered  folk,  such  as 
mayweed  and  scentless  mayweed,  are  present  also ; 
black  medick  and  melilot  may  greet  you,  and  a  jewel 
of  crimson  and  cream  in  the  shape  of  the  dropwort— 
most  beautiful  of  English  spiraeas — will  surely  nod 
its  lovely  head  hard  by.  The  stork's-bill,  with  fleeting 


i34  MY  DEVON   YEAR 

petals,  pink  or  white,  the  round-leaved  mallow  and 
the  wild  mignonette  all  love  to  be  within  sound  of  the 
sea.  Here,  too,  blue  sal  via  shall  be  met  with,  and  a 
rare  plant  in  Devon,  that  I  have  seen  but  once  at  such 
a  place,  is  the  autumn  gentian.  Aloft,  the  bine  of  the 
hop  decks  the  thorn  with  flowers  and  fruit,  and,  be- 
side him,  the  everlasting  pea  may  clamber  and  hang 
out  great  clusters  of  blossoms,  pale  green  and  pink. 
The  purple-tufted  vetch  likewise  adorns  this  region, 
with  the  common  vetch  and  the  two  tiny  tares  ;  while 
the  wood  vetch — fairest  and  most  delicately  hued  and 
veined  of  all  the  pea-blossomed  family — shall  also 
here  be  found  by  the  fortunate. 

As  the  banks  grow  open  to  sea,  wind,  and  sun, 
certain  plants — stragglers  from  the  downs  and  cliffs 
— may  be  counted  upon.  The  hound's-tongue,  the 
gromwell  and  the  teasel,  the  little  golden  carline 
thistle,  the  Mary  thistle  with  milk-white  veins,  and 
the  great  nodding  thistle  all  adorn  the  end  of  the 
lane  where  it  vanishes  in  a  "goyle"  or  upon  a  pre- 
cipice's crown  of  turf.  And  where  such  a  lane  breaks 
to  the  edge  of  the  cornfield  on  the  cliff,  or  dips  along 
ploughed  earth,  the  sky-blue  chicory's  stars  cling  stalk- 
less  to  their  parent  stem ;  the  pimpernel  and  poppy 
shine  scarlet ;  the  tiny  heart's-ease  prospers  with  the 
corn-mint  and  golden  chrysanthemum ;  the  chickweed 
and  fumitory,  the  hen's-foot,  the  sea  carrot  and  shep- 
herd's-needle  touch  your  feet. 

In  October  my  lanes,  whither  I  return  to  make  an 
end  after  these  devious  windings,  are  aflame  and 


THE   LAP   OF   PROSERPINE          135 

aglow.  Hazels  and  elms  shine  out  pale  gold  ;  the 
beech  has  a  tone  of  copper,  and  the  maple's  orange 
and  scarlet  contrast  magnificently  with  the  deep  purple 
of  the  dogwood.  Ash  leaves  turn  a  golden-green  and 
fall  early,  and  often  the  South-west  wind  proper  to 
this  hour  snatches  them  from  the  bough  untimely.  But 
their  great  tassels  of  keys  hang  into  the  late  Winter, 
and  the  rich  brown  masses  of  them  contrast  well 
against  the  green  of  the  ivy  and  the  colour  of  the 
elms.  The  aglets  of  the  rose  hang  in  scarlet  sprays, 
and  the  hawthorn's  clustered  crimson  already  invites 
many  a  hungry  beak.  Thrush,  starling,  and  blackbird 
have  long  since  made  an  end  of  the  elder-berries  and 
the  crop  of  the  wild  cherry.  Acorns  fall  tapping  from 
their  cups ;  chestnuts  leave  their  silky  cases ;  and  the 
three-sided,  cinnamon-coloured  fruits  of  the  beech 
crackle  crisply  in  thousands  underfoot.  A  small  thing 
that  dies  nobly  is  the  silver- weed,  and  now  its  leaves 
are  painted  with  pink  and  gold,  where  they  pass 
beside  the  ditch. 

Now  the  long  lane  vistas  sparkle  and  blaze  into  fire 
at  sudden  sunlight ;  but  each  breath  of  air  that  moves 
the  mist-laden  cloud  brings  down  a  handful  of  leaves 
from  the  trees  and  hedges,  and  the  very  sun, 
suddenly  shining  out  in  a  wan  gleam,  seems  to  touch 
them  and  displace  not  a  few.  They  flutter  in  his 
beam  for  the  last  time  and  so  sink  to  earth.  All 
growing  things  are  knit  in  these  close  hedges  by  the 
clematis,  and  for  its  inconspicuous  flowers  it  now  gives 
us  feathered  fruits  that  powder  the  hedge  with  delicate 


i36  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

fleeces,  shine  among  naked  branches,  drape  the  great 
arms  of  the  dark  fir,  droop  in  fair  festoons  and  showers 
over  the  decay  of  the  year's  foliage.  When  wet  with 
rain  they  are  grey  ;  when  dry  or  under  sunshine  they 
make  a  frosted  silver  robe  for  the  green  things  below. 
The  pink  fruits  of  the  spindle  tree  have  opened,  and 
the  brilliant  orange  seeds  are  visible.  Bryony  and 
woody  nightshade  hang  their  berries  in  the  hedges  ; 
thistle  and  dandelion  sow  their  endless  crop  upon  the 
wind,  but  the  willow-herb  and  the  valerian  have  long 
since  parted  from  their  flying  seeds.  Along  the  hedges 
is  huddle  of  damp  death,  here  starred  by  some  belated 
rosy  campion  or  wild  basil,  daisy  or  tardy  black- 
berry spray  in  flower ;  the  languid  air  is  laden  with 
sweetness  from  the  orchards ;  the  starlings  fly  in 
flocks  ;  the  small  birds  twitter  and  hop  in  subdued 
parties  about  the  way ;  a  thrush  sings  bravely ;  and 
the  robin's  sudden  song  in  autumn  twilight  reminds 
us  of  the  dark  days  at  the  door.  Now  desiccated 
lichens  again  grow  humid,  and  the  hooded  and  cowled 
people — grey  and  livid,  scarlet  and  purple — begin  to 
move  and  peep  from  under  the  dead  leaves. 

November  further  marks  the  oncoming  of  Winter. 
The  nights  are  touched  with  frost,  and  at  noon,  when 
the  sun  brings  a  genial  ray  to  some  old  stump  or 
mossy  stone,  ancient  bluebottles  collect  there  to  warm 
their  failing  wings,  to  lament  the  green  days  done,  to 
marvel  that  their  god  should  thus  lose  his  primal  heat, 
and  sink  so  low  into  the  hedge  from  his  old,  high 
pathway  above  the  tree-tops.  So,  comparing  signs 


THE   LAP   OF   PROSERPINE          137 

and  omens,  they  judge  the  end  of  the  world  is 
nigh ;  and  for  them  and  their  practical  purposes  it  is. 
Yet  Nature  has  looked  to  this  matter  with  all  the 
rest,  and  next  Summer  will  not  want  for  necessary 
bluebottles  any  more  than  it  will  lack  violets,  and 
rosebuds,  and  honey-bees.  These  last  still  work  a 
little,  and  the  ivy  blossoms — high  overhead — are  full 
of  their  pleasant  murmur,  like  a  soft  echo  from  bygone 
Summer. 

Of  other  flowers,  the  wood-strawberry,  and  red 
campion  and  nipple-wort,  alone  light  the  desolation. 
Rime  of  white  frosts  lies  under  the  northern  side  of 
the  hedge-banks,  and  each  curled  leaf  is  touched  with 
it.  On  dry  days  there  is  the  crisp  sigh  and  patter  of 
the  little  leaf-ghosts  where  they  fly  in  air,  or  seem  to 
run  like  fairy  battalions  at  the  double  along  the 
ground.  Red  evening  light  brings  out  the  traceries 
of  interwoven  boughs  and  the  distinctive  character  of 
the  naked  tree  skeletons  above  them.  Then  fall  the 
latter  rains,  and  since  little  business  longer  challenges 
the  eye,  one's  thought  may  burrow  with  the  roots 
underground,  where  there  spreads  that  vast  laboratory 
from  which  spring  the  glories  of  the  seasons.  Here 
is  a  subterranean  world  at  least  as  wonderful  as  that 
I  see ;  and  within  its  labyrinth,  from  the  tiny  thread- 
like fibrils  of  a  germinating  grass-seed  to  the  ancient 
oak  tree's  roots,  huge  as  the  fabled  snake,  like  labour 
of  subtraction,  selection,  storing,  building  up,  and 
growth  proceeds  without  intermission  under  the  night 
of  the  deep,  sweet  earth. 


138  MY  DEVON   YEAR 

During  December  much  minute  work  on  a  mighty 
scale  occupies  each  hour,  and  light  and  water  and 
temperatures  begot  of  decay  bring  scent  and  familiar 
odour  over  the  surface  of  the  earth,  or  lazy  vapours  that 
hang  low  at  the  elbows  of  the  lanes  and  woods,  and 
creep  like  blue  ghosts  above  the  crucibles  of  Nature's 
chemistry.  Here  the  rain  and  the  busy  worm  convert 
all  this  mass  of  food  to  the  staple  of  the  earth,  and 
again  the  lichens  and  liver-worts  come  to  their  place 
in  the  circular  procession  and  punctual  march  ;  again 
the  mosses  renew  their  shining  youth  ;  again  the  tight 
catkin  appears  upon  the  naked  hazel  and  alder ;  again 
the  North  wind  murmurs  of  coming  snow. 

So  the  year  closes,  and  one  turns  from  this  trivial 
scrutiny  to  mourn  that  from  such  infinite  possibili- 
ties the  personal  harvest  is  so  scanty.  How  much 
the  eye  has  seen,  how  little  the  mind  has  perceived 
even  at  moments  of  closest  contact !  And  beyond  that 
sorrowful  certainty  lies  the  greater  assurance  that  in 
every  moment  of  every  hour  throughout  my  absence 
from  these  scenes,  there  has  budded  some  good  thing, 
there  has  flourished  some  animate  or  inanimate 
creature,  there  has  passed  some  perfect  shape  of  life 
unguessed  and  unrecorded.  Each  moment  of  the 
day,  each  pulse  of  the  night,  carries  along  with  it 
a  revelation  seen  only  by  the  eyes  of  unconscious  life ; 
and  the  sun  in  the  heaven,  the  unsleeping  stars  above 
the  firmament,  most  surely  witness  more  through  one 
diurnal  span  than  shall  be  found  within  all  the  gathered 
wisdom  of  mankind. 


It 


m 


SAND-DUNES 

|UT  yesterday  I  walked  where  mat-grass 
chevels  the  sand-dunes  with  meagre  green ; 
and  remembered  that  thirty  years  ago  I 
ran  here  and  rolled  in  the  sand.  All  is  un- 
changed ;  yet,  in  that  my  mind  has  weathered  three 
decades  and  returned  from  a  world  of  work  and 
experience,  nothing  can  again  be  as  it  has  been ; 
nothing  can  evermore  take  the  same  colours,  for 
young  eyes  see  no  cloud-shadows.  Then  these  sand- 
hills were  a  procession  of  lion-coloured  monsters, 
wandering  in  awful  company  by  the  waters ;  and  the 
scanty  grasses  served  for  bristling  hair  upon  them  ; 
and  I  imagined  these  gigantic  and  sinister  things  as 
leaping  into  the  narrow  channel  where  Exe  flows  to 
sea,  and  crossing  over  it  that  they  might  devour  a 
little  town  upon  the  other  side.  Yet  me  they  hurt 
not,  and  I  would  lie  upon  their  hot  breasts  fearlessly, 
roll  in  the  soft  sand,  speculate  on  the  purple  of 
the  sea-holly,  prick  my  fingers  with  it,  tumble  and 
bask,  and,  gazing  upward,  build  my  secure  kingdom, 
fortress,  home,  in  the  pinnacles  of  a  summer  cloud. 
I  loved  to  dream  in  these  old  sand-dunes.  I  can 

139 


140  MY  DEVON   YEAR 

conjure  the  grand  fancies  even  now,  and  feel  kindly 
to  them.  For  what  a  dainty  piece  of  work  is  a 
child's  mind !  What  a  sea  of  fairy  colours  it  swims 
in!  How  unconsciously  it  gathers  and  garners 
and  weaves  from  little  experiences,  little  know- 
ledge, and  little  joys,  the  fabric  of  its  dreams,  hopes, 
and  sudden  ambitions.  Floating  in  an  opal  shell 
on  a  glorious  sea  of  golden  to-morrows,  the  child 
stretches  out  small  hands  to  the  future ;  as  the  child- 
man  does  afterwards  from  his  mud-barge  on  the  grey 
canal  of  life. 

I  remember  lying  here  where  the  dunes  are  brushed 
with  a  sort  of  purple,  paler  than  palest  flowers,  where 
each  pit  and  dimple  has  its  own  delicate  note  of  colour, 
where  in  this  sand-setting,  each  scrap  of  flint  or  slate, 
or  marble  shines  out  like  a  jewel.  Here  my  mind 
dwelt  upon  the  ships  that  stole  along  over  the  sea, 
where  it  shone  above  the  sand-hills  ;  and  because  the 
grass  could  hide  those  great  ships,  even  as  a  fly  on 
the  window  can  hide  the  evening  star,  I  said  that 
my  toy  boat  was  as  good  as  they  ;  and  sticking  it  in 
the  grass,  and  taking  a  position  where  it  seemed 
to  sail  on  the  blue  edge  of  the  world,  I  found  that  it 
loomed  larger  than  the  greatest  vessels  that  had  their 
business  in  those  waters,  and  was  much  pleased  at  the 
notable  figure  my  toy  cut  among  the  ships  of  men. 
So  we  set  pride  of  possession  above  the  cold  logic  of 
comparison,  and  each  mother's  son  is  a  triumph,  and 
each  man's  particular  toy  a  unique  treasure. 

These   rolling   dunes  are  a  home   of  many  good 


SAND-DUNES  141 

things ;  for  flowers  that  are  beautiful  dwell  among  them, 
and  flowers  that  are  courageous  in  their  daring  invasion 
of  the  beaches,  and  flowers  that  are  cheerful  under 
stress  of  circumstances,  and  flowers  that  are  merely 
rare.  Hare's-foot  trefoil,  whose  pink  blooms  are 
hidden  in  a  pearly  mist,  makes  a  sort  of  manna 
scattered  by  the  way ;  soldanella  spreads  little  arrow- 
shaped  leaves  under  the  grey-green  wheat-grass,  and 
opens  her  trumpets  there ;  sea-rocket  creeps  to  the 
very  feet  of  the  sea-horses  that  paw  the  beach  at 
high  tides,  and  the  great  gulls  look  into  its  mauve  eyes 
as  they  strut  on  yellow  feet  in  the  harvest  of  the  last 
wave.  Many  other  things,  now  scorched  by  Sum- 
mer, find  life  in  the  sand ;  stonecrops  linger  there, 
and  the  salt- wort  straggles,  and  the  scentless  mayweed 
spreads  with  drooping  rays  and  staring  eyes.  Above 
the  grasses,  whose  ripe  seed-heads  are  the  colour  of 
the  dunes,  arise  creeping  thistles  and  blaze  noble  heads 
of  ragwort,  that  sing  a  colour  song;  while  behind 
them  lie  acres  of  deep  green  rushes,  brushed  with 
the  brown  of  their  fruit  and  broken  by  spires  of  red 
docks.  Then  the  estuary  of  the  river  stretches  like 
a  band  of  silver,  and  in  the  distance,  under  the  haze 
of  Summer,  there  lie  woodlands  and  cornfields  upon 
the  bosom  of  a  hill. 

I  have  seen  dawn  upon  the  Exe,  and  can  remem- 
ber how  a  great  mist  rolled  down  the  river  to  meet 
the  morning.  In  billows  it  came  under  a  breeze  from 
shore,  hid  all  the  heron-haunted  flats  and  marshes, 
heather-ridges  and  sleepy  dunes ;  then  the  risen  sun 


142  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

touched  it,  and  it  waned  gloriously  in  a  rosy  glow 
against  the  increasing  blue  of  the  sky ;  while  from  its 
depths  stole  Exe  to  the  sea ;  and  I  saw  red  cliffs  and 
marble  beaches  and  fishers  with  bright  sails  setting 
forth  into  an  ocean  of  light. 

Within  the  arm  of  my  sand-dunes  extend  spaces 
that  only  vanish  at  highest  tides ;  and  here,  in 
shining  plantations  decked  with  shells,  grow  the 
glassworts.  Their  lower  joints  are  often  a  radiant 
scarlet  and  lemon,  and  rise  above  rich  store  of  sea- 
weeds, brought  by  successive  tides.  These  are  flat- 
tened out  upon  the  mud  into  a  mosaic  of  ruby-red, 
amber,  transparent  white,  and  deep  green,  all  laced 
and  slashed  and  gemmed  with  ribbons  of  olive-brown 
and  sepia,  or  stars  of  orange  and  pearl.  In  drier 
regions,  where  barriers  rise  or  dykes  drain  the  water, 
sea-lavenders  bring  to  earth  the  glory  of  foreign  skies, 
and  their  hues  mingle  with  the  rushes  and  the  heather 
of  the  higher  levels.  Shining  mud-flats  are  one 
background  to  this  blaze  of  purple ;  while  sand- 
dunes  and  glimpses  of  foam-fringed  waters  hem  in  the 
marshes  towards  the  sea. 

The  sand,  as  I  have  said,  reveals  all  manner  of 
rare  shades  in  direct  sunshine,  and  over  its  yellow 
undertone  prevails  a  delicate,  gauzy  hue  that  par- 
takes of  mauve  in  one  light,  of  grey  in  another. 
These  spaces  are  virgin  since  the  last  patter  of  rain 
pitted  them  ;  but  where  a  foot  falls,  the  dream-colour 
departs  and  yellow  shines  out  until  time  weathers 
the  exposed  grains  again.  The  mat-grass  binds  all 


SAND-DUNES  143 

together  with  nets  and  meshes  deep  hidden,  and  the 
wind  fashions  a  harp  here,  and  in  a  minor  key,  sing- 
ing softly,  carries  pale  light  over  the  green,  and  bears 
many  scents  of  earth  out  to  the  deep.  Glimmering 
lines  of  foam  twinkle  horizontally  through  the  thin 
grasses  as  each  wave  curls  and  breaks  and  spreads 
its  white  ridge  to  right  and  left  along  the  back  of  the 
shallows,  and,  line  upon  line,  over  a  huge  scrip,  shore- 
wide,  they  write  the  story  of  the  sea.  There  is  a 
word  I  seem  to  decipher  before  it  vanishes ;  there 
is  a  sentence  that  I  can  read  before  it  departs.  The 
sand-dunes  and  the  waves  tell  each  the  other's  story ; 
for  the  countless  grains  that  twinkle  through  my 
fingers  represent  the  activity  of  the  sea ;  while  the 
earth's  flowing  raiments  of  great  waters  hold  hidden 
the  secret  of  the  sand. 

Gold  and  grey  commingled  are  the  ancient  dunes ; 
and  they  come  back  to  me  now  as  a  material  image 
and  picture  of  the  gold  and  grey  years  that  have 
sped  since  last  I  saw  them.  Here  the  sun  sleeps, 
and  the  wind  rests  awhile  ;  and  the  colours  blend  and 
mingle  so  subtly  that  none  shall  part  them,  none  shall 
say  where  brightness  fades  away  and  the  shadows 
begin.  Every  puff  of  air  sends  the  sand-ridges  dancing, 
and  scatters  their  little  grains :  they  ride  on  air  with 
seed  of  thistles  and  grasses,  rags  of  dry  weed,  or 
fallen  feather  from  a  gull's  wing;  but  these  dunes, 
for  all  the  ceaseless  rearrangements  of  their  particles, 
continue  unchanged;  even  as  matter  is  eternal,  but 
no  form  of  it.  And  noting  this  thing,  I  muse 


i44  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

whether  I  have  likewise  persisted,  and  remained  my 
first  young  self  despite  all  the  winds  of  chance  and 
the  waves  of  time. 

Though  he  stand  steadfast  in  spirit,  man's  mental 
structure  must  alter  its  shape  under  clean  tempests  of 
knowledge,  from  increasing  breadth  of  horizon,  at  the 
riotous  buffets  of  a  growing  intellect,  and  in  the 
variable  weather  of  human  experience.  Yet  nothing 
from  outside  can  hurt  the  substance  of  my  inner  life, 
so  that  it  is  held  together  by  reason,  as  the  mat-grass 
holds  the  fabric  of  the  dune;  no  vital  thing  can  whelm 
this  spark  of  me  while  Nature  lets  it  burn;  no  hand 
can  choke  it,  poison  it,  ruin  it,  but  my  own. 

That  was  the  venerable  truth  written  in  the 
breaking  waves,  and  scrawled  by  the  wrack  upon 
the  shore  ;  that  was  the  secret  of  the  sand-dunes,  the 
question  they  asked  of  me  as  I  came  back  to  them 
with  my  thirty  years  of  added  life  and,  resting  upon 
their  soft  hearts,  dreamed  the  old  dreams  again,  but 
listened  to  the  new  voices. 


THE   HOME   OF  THE   WEST   WIND 

winding  ways  from  a  lofty  land  I  ap- 
proached the  sea ;  and  my  road  sank 
along  one  side  of  a  sun-scorched  valley, 
over  against  which  there  spread  the  spec- 
tacle of  a  more  shadowed  hill  southwards.  Here 
corn  climbed  aloft  from  the  trout  stream  in  the 
combe-bottom,  and  a  green  elm  or  two,  rising  above 
hedgerows,  was  resting-place  for  the  eye.  Ahead, 
framed  in  a  hurricane-cradle  of  terrific  cliffs,  spread 
forth  the  sea — the  playground  of  the  West  wind — 
an  expanse  of  unutterable  blue  to-day,  its  power 
lulled  to  the  throb  of  sleeping  pulses  along  the 
shore. 

Cots  and  thirsty  hedges  of  tamarisk  powdered  with 
dust  filled  my  foreground,  and  on  the  right  of  them 
a  scarp  of  stone,  gloomy  and  savage  even  under 
the  sun,  climbed  aloft  out  of  the  sea  and  rolled  in 
wide  undulations  landward  beneath  a  running  flame 
of  the  autumn  gorse  and  a  gleam  of  pink  heather 
between  brake-ferns  and  grasses.  The  blue  back 
of  the  sea  stretched  from  the  fall  of  this  cliff 
across  the  horizon,  and  vanished  presently  where  a 
headland  rose  southward  and  framed  in  that  spacious 

L  145 


146  MY  DEVON   YEAR 

scene.  Heaven  was  cloudless  and  of  an  infinite  clarity 
— the  work  of  the  West  wind  and  the  Atlantic  on  their 
loom  of  sea  and  sky.  Under  high  noon  these  condi- 
tions engender  such  a  sharpness  and  intensity  of  seeing 
that  the  least  observant  eye  brightens  thereat,  the  most 
lack-lustre  wanderer,  sent  hither  by  happy  chance, 
wakens  into  some  added  appreciation  of  life. 

Over  a  foreground  of  grey  rocks  I  passed  above 
high-water  mark,  beside  a  spot  where  the  little  trout 
stream  from  above  found  burial  in  the  shining  shingle. 
Even  at  this  breathless  hour  foam  shone  like  a  neck- 
lace of  silver  round  the  throat  of  every  sea-girt  rock, 
and  bubbled  in  a  glimmer  of  bursting  beads  where 
dark  grasses  rose  and  fell  at  the  waters'  touch. 
These  seas  take  no  rest ;  these  waves  that  roll 
on  the  northern  coasts  of  the  West  Country  are 
rarely  at  perfect  peace.  There  is  the  weight  of  the 
Atlantic  behind  this  blue  horizon.  Tremendous  latent 
power  lurks  hidden  always,  and  waits  only  for  the 
West  wind  to  set  it  in  motion.  Silence  has  never 
brooded  here  since  the  world  began,  and  even  under 
the  sunshine  and  the  August  glow  of  fair  weather, 
there  is  that  in  the  sad  cliff-brows  and  tremendous 
spaces  of  the  beach,  left  for  a  short  hour  naked  by 
the  tide,  that  cries  out  of  conditions  far  removed  from 
peace. 

In  spirit  I  see  the  leaden  billows  tumbling  into  this 
miscalled  haven  on  the  wings  of  a  gale  of  wind ;  I 
hear  the  scream  of  the  great  seas  when  stinging 
mists  of  spindrift  are  torn  off  their  white  scalps  to 


THE  HOME  OF  THE  WEST  WIND     147 

lash  the  shore  like  a  liquid  scourge ;  I  witness  a  hurri- 
cane under  these  altitudes,  and  hear  the  song  of  the 
stone  answer  each  wave's  wild  challenge  as  the  wind 
strikes  the  precipices,  and  the  sea  drapes  each  blind 
face  of  the  rocks  with  spouting  beards  and  brows  of 
white  water. 

Off  shore  great  sunflashes  played  on  the  blue  ; 
the  floor  of  the  empty  beach-bed  glimmered  at  my 
feet ;  behind  mte  lay  the  cottages  at  the  combe-foot, 
all  dotted  with  yellow  lichens,  under  shining  slate ; 
and  spread  about  them  were  stacks,  outbuildings, 
dried  grass  lands,  and  straight  walls  of  the  prevalent 
black  stone.  In  the  air  trembled  a  ceaseless  song 
of  the  sea,  the  solemn  primal  anthem  of  the  West 
wind  played  iri  a  treble  key  to-day  ;  under  my  feet 
lay  rocks  worn  smooth  by  weight  of  unnumbered 
waves  ;  and  over  their  surfaces  passed  ribs,  and  veins, 
and  delicate  filigrane  of  pearly  marble,  here  netted 
like  the  mesh  on  a  ripe  melon,  here  as  it  had  been 
a  map  of  some  fairy  country  unrolled  upon  the  stone. 
The  hill  acclivities,  seen  from  beneath,  shone  under 
the  sun's  eye,  revealing  a  cleavage  mathematical  in 
their  regularity  of  seam  and  fissure  where  they  sloped 
upward  to  shaggy  terraces  of  thrift  and  blackthorn ; 
while  beneath  them  spread  the  beach.  Here  scarcely 
a  human  soul  was  visible.  At  the  edge  of  the  sea  a 
solitary  man,  dwarfed  to  bird-like  size  by  distance, 
moved  with  a  basket  and  probed  under  the  seaweed- 
hidden  ledges  ;  in  a  narrow  arm  of  the  sea,  like  little 
pink  pearls,  some  children  bathed  ;  and  above  them, 


148  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

where  the  precipices  towered  in  opposition  to  the  sun, 
their  mighty  eaves,  and  prominences  and  planes,  re- 
flected in  the  water,  robbed  it  of  the  sky's  blue  and 
substituted  a  sombre  shadow  of  their  own  darkness. 
The  boulders  in  this  wonderful  valley  were  alive 
with  every  hue  that  iris  knows,  and  the  sunlight, 
like  a  magician,  revealed  a  thousand  shades  of 
olive  and  chrome,  topaz  and  amethyst,  scarlet  and 
snow,  here  spread  on  the  stones,  here  shining 
through  the  crystal  of  little  pools,  here  lapped  and 
cradled  in  the  fringes  of  the  oncoming  foam  as  the 
sea  returned  again.  The  rocks  were  starred  with 
grey  patches  of  young  limpets ;  and  at  pool-edges 
the  sand  was  fabricated  into  a  coral-like  fret  wherein 
stuck  bright  shells,  blue  and  russet  and  lilac — frag- 
ments of  the  strange  homes  of  things  now  perished, 
whose  habitations  were  either  desolate  or  tenanted 
by  some  soft  stranger  that  did  not  build  his  house, 
but  finding  it  empty,  became  tenant  on  a  lease  to 
be  determined  by  his  own  rate  of  growth  or  limit 
of  prosperity. 

A  wide  gamut  of  colour,  from  the  vivid,  riotous 
rainbow  play  beneath  to  the  more  solemn  hues  and 
shadows  of  the  cliffs,  made  visual  music  here ;  yet, 
even  under  this  jocund  summer  sun,  while  the  little 
children  played  fearlessly  in  the  lap  of  the  lazy  sea, 
an  impression  of  austerity  haunted  me.  I  could  not 
forget,  and  the  terrific  crags  could  not  forget,  that 
mighty  shriek  from  the  rage  of  ocean  on  stormy  nights. 
Each  precipice  was  conscious  of  the  immensity  of 


THE  HOME  OF  THE  WEST  WIND     149 

Zephyr ;  each  towered  alert  and  strained  upon  the 
sea ;  for  the  immemorial  enemy  would  surely  waken 
from  sleep  refreshed,  the  storm-wind  of  the  equinox 
only  awaited  a  signal  to  let  loose  once  more  his 
thunderbolts. 

Strata,  like  a  frozen  wave,  undulate  in  great 
ribbons  from  high -water  mark  round  the  shore. 
These  are  most  clearly  shown  at  sea-level,  but  in- 
dicated even  to  the  uppermost  turrets  of  the  cliff's 
crown.  A  shadow  drifts  across  the  scene,  cools 
the  warmth  of  the  weeds,  and  reveals  things  unseen 
in  the  glare  of  the  sun.  Along  the  cliffs,  where  ling- 
hangs  in  great  cushions  and  sea-campion  studs  the 
rocks  with  white  stars,  sheep  have  clambered  and  stand 
in  the  shade,  waiting  patiently  while  the  sun  turns 
westward.  The  smell  of  the  sea  and  the  outspread 
life  of  a  world  unknown  make  their  appeal  from 
the  rocks  and  the  weeds.  Gardens  shine  up  out 
of  the  clear  pools — forests,  jungles,  deserts,  peopled 
by  transparent  prawns  and  tiny  fish  that  dart  among 
the  foliage  of  silver  and  rose  and  gold,  or  seek  their 
invisible  prey  in  groves  of  ebony  and  orange,  among 
flowers  and  fabrics  of  sepia  and  lemon,  emerald-green 
and  purple  wine-colour.  The  sea -anemones  are  mere 
dabs  of  ruby  or  yellow  or  green  jelly  seen  out  of 
their  element,  but  beneath  it,  they  wave  their  flesh- 
coloured  tentacles,  winnow  the  water,  and  turn 
to  flowers.  Amazing  are  the  shapes  of  the  sea- 
weeds, and  beautiful  beyond  expression  is  the 
mingled  harmony  of  their  vegetation  in  hair-like  and 


150  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

ribbon  -  like  communion.  They  float,  frilled  and 
crimped  ;  they  shine,  twining,  sinuous,  and  slippery, 
to  the  embrace  of  the  water ;  they  gasp  naked  under 
the  air  on  the  high  and  dry  rocks  at  the  kiss  of  the 
sun.  Their  tags  and  tatters  and  laces  spread  every- 
where :  here  ardent  and  glowing,  here  chastened 
through  the  clear  medium  of  the  water;  and  over 
them  dance  butterflies — a  fritillary  or  two,  and  a  little 
blue  heath,  and  the  common  white  pieris — all  de- 
ceived, as  it  seems,  by  the  rainbow  colours  in  these 
sea-gardens  not  spread  for  them. 

Over  all  there  broods  a  mist,  a  delicate  and  nebulous 
haze — the  very  breath  of  the  sea  made  visible.  It 
softens  each  craggy  shelf  and  precipice  and  island 
rock  in  the  receding  perspective  of  the  coast-line ; 
it  blurs  the  distance  gently.  It  creeps  bleak  and  chill 
across  the  rain  on  leaden  days ;  it  shines  radiant 
beneath  the  blue  of  cloudless  skies ;  it  burns  on  such 
a  summer  noon  as  this — burns  and  dilates  and  rarefies 
under  the  sun  into  a  glorious  and  transparent  gold. 
It  is  ever  present,  ever  changing,  ever  floating  be- 
tween earth  and  air,  the  protean  child  of  old  ocean 
and  the  West  wind. 

There  came  now  a  growing  growl  from  the  waters, 
and  here  and  there,  against  some  solitary  seaward 
rock,  a  sheaf  of  silver  feathers  shone  upwards,  then 
fell  with  a  sigh  to  fret  the  wave  that  brought  it. 
The  tide  came  in  again,  and  as  it  returned,  sweeping 
the  ledges  one  by  one,  lifting  their  shaggy  weeds, 
pouring  pure  sea  into  each  pool,  sliding  nearer  and 


THE  HOME  OF  THE  WEST  WIND     151 

nearer  with  gentle,  hog-backed  waves  that  hid  their 
strength,  I  passed  before  it  and  retreated  by  cliff- 
ways  where  the  honeysuckle,  the  golden-rod,  and 
the  burnet-rose  flourished  together  aloft  and  made  no 
quarrel  with  the  wind  that  dwarfed  and  stunted  them 
and  robbed  them  of  adult  shape. 

Nor  is  it  well  that  any  shall  question  the  way 
of  that  primal  giant.  At  the  will  of  Nature  he 
has  played  on  this  harp  of  awful  crags  and  preci- 
pices since  first  they  were  heaved  out  of  the  earth, 
A  blind  servant  is  he,  and  his  work  is  other  than 
to  please  man  or  consider  the  sons  of  men.  Quarrel 
not  with  him  that  he  drowned  those  you  love ;  bless 
him  not  for  bringing  the  rain.  He  is  oblivious  of 
your  desire,  of  your  joy  or  your  sorrow,  and  the  tre- 
mendous breath  of  him  that  now  touches  your  cheek, 
passes  from  it  with  caress  as  rough  or  gentle  to  the 
beasts  of  the  field  and  the  graves  of  the  dead.  To- 
day he  plays  with  your  children's  curls  and  helps  the 
fledgling's  flight;  to-morrow  he  lifts  up  the  sea  against 
the  earth  and  makes  war  between  them ;  he  destroys 
the  ships  and  those  who  after  long  wandering  have 
sighted  home ;  he  drags  forth  by  their  roots  the  ancient 
trees  of  the  forest,  shakes  the  mountains,  and  shatters 
the  patient  and  precious  work  of  man. 


DART 

]ERY  near  the  heart  of  Devon's  wild  table- 
land rise  the  sisters  of  Dart,  one  beneath 
the  great  sponge  of  Cranmere,  mother  of 
rivers,  the  other  from  those  shaggy  slopes 
of  heather-clad  Cut  Hill  that  crown  the  central  lone- 
liness. By  winding  ways  the  new-born  rivers  gleam 
through  wastes  of  the  budding  ling,  making  musical 
the  silence ;  and  here  small  mare  and  woolly  foal 
stand  at  the  brink  of  them,  and  here  bellowing  kine, 
with  tails  in  air  and  uplifted  muzzles,  gallop  cumbrously 
and  plunge  dew-lap  deep  in  some  familiar  pool  that 
shall  shelter  them  from  the  summer  glare  and  insect 
life.  To  their  meeting-place  the  rivers  prattle  along, 
now  leaden,  now  golden,  now  all  olive  and  sepia  in 
some  silent  bend  where  they  widen  and  grow  still, 
now  foaming  and  fretting  over  mossy  stairs  of  granite, 
now  wrinkled  and  full  of  tremulous  light,  where  they 
rise  again  after  some  headlong  leap.  To  their  con- 
fluence, West  Dart  comes  from  journeying  past  Wist- 
man's  oaks,  hard  by  old  Crockern's  historic  crown ; 
while  her  sister  travels  through  glades  and  meadows 
beneath  the  granite  head  of  Believer.  The  one  has 
wandered  beside  little  islets,  where  in  Spring  white 

15* 


DART  153 

bluebells  grew,  and  the  fishermen  struggled  through 
jungles  of  silvery  sallow  ;  the  other  has  passed  that 
old  pack-horse  viaduct  at  Postbridge,  and  reflected 
many  a  sheet  of  shining  broom  and  gorse  upon 
its  way.  At  the  tryst,  scarlet  harvests  of  the  rowan 
are  already  ripe ;  whortleberries  brush  the  banks  of 
the  mingled  streams  with  purple,  and  green  larches 
dwell  above. 

Dart  is  a  young  arid  happy  river  still,  and  innocent 
of  the  solemn  splendours  of  deep  water  that  await 
her ;  of  the  mystery  and  magic  of  great  woods ;  of 
the  unechoing,  fertile  vales  she  will  presently  traverse ; 
of  man's  legend,  that  no  year  passes  but  her  woman's 
heart  claims  toll  of  human  life ;  of  the  song  and  ripple 
of  advancing  flow  from  the  sea ;  of  her  journey's 
end,  when  she  shall  be  lost  and  melted  into  the 
eternal  lover  of  all  rivers.  Past  the  desolation  of  the 
Moor,  under  the  granite  crowns  of  it,  and  winding 
about  the  footstools  of  giant  hills,  the  river  shines 
and  sparkles  between  her  banks — by  villages,  by  home- 
steads, by  little  mills,  beneath  ivy-clad  bridges ;  and 
as  she  passes  onward,  her  volume  deepens,  widens, 
and  wins  a  more  solemn  note  of  song.  Here  scarps 
of  granite  spring  from  the  oak-clad  hills  ;  here  pines 
crown  an  acclivity ;  here  the  margin  meets  some  ferny 
combe,  and  the  bracken  glimmers  blue-green  under 
summer  haze — glimmers  and  sweetens  the  air,  and 
grows  to  the  brink  of  the  water.  There  rise  the 
forests  of  Holne,  and  under  aisles  of  shadows,  grow- 
ing hushed  and  deep,  the  river  twines  where  king- 


i54  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

ferns  skirt  her  silver  and  adorn  the  way  with  masses 
of  foliage  seen  emerald-bright  against  the  dark  ivy, 
the  black  earth,  and  mysterious  blue  shadows  of  the 
banks. 

A  forest  whispers  here,  and  the  croon  of  doves 
shall  be  heard  sobbing  in  time  to  the  murmur  of 
the  wind  in  the  fir  trees.  Then  birds  and  breeze 
are  still,  and  the  river  is  very  still  also,  where  she 
winds  unruffled  through  silence  censed  by  the  pine. 
A  jewel-bright  halcyon  flits  through  the  mazes  of 
chequered  sunlight  that  scatter  golden  sequins  and 
arrows  in  the  heart  of  the  stream,  and  creatures  less 
lovely  also  move  here  and  there — all  things  great  and 
small,  furred  and  feathered,  about  the  first  business 
of  life.  In  many  a  glade  by  the  river's  way,  bryony 
and  woodbine  mingle,  and  ferns  trail  along  the 
tide.  A  hundred  water -lovers  crowd  the  brink ; 
and  the  little  melampyre  brightens  all  the  dewy 
under -world  of  the  great  woods  with  pale  light. 
Sometimes  beaches  of  pebbles  extend  to  the  river 
from  the  margins  of  the  forest,  and  beneath  the 
water,  where  it  spreads  glassy  smooth,  between  one 
tumble  of  stickles  and  the  next,  sharp  eyes  may  see 
the  salmon.  They  look  like  grey  shadows  poised 
in  the  crystal  ;  their  heads  turned  to  the  Moor ; 
their  tails  gently  moving  where  they  bide  awhile 
on  the  journey,  their  goggled  eyes  turned  upward, 
like  the  eyes  of  creatures  praying.  They  rest  here 
in  the  Mother's  hollowed  hand,  then,  strong  to  pursue 
the  instinct  within,  swim  on,  fight  each  silver  fall  in 


DART  155 

turn,  and  ere  winter,  if  death  does  not  come  between, 
they  win  to  the  deep  distant  pool  with  shelving  bank 
and  heather  border  that  they  know  of  old  and  seek 
again. 

At  Holne  Chase  the  Webburn  leaps  to  her  greater 
sister,  and  anon  Dart,  her  song  and  dance  ended,  swells 
to  full  womanhood  and  sweeps  into  the  land  of  the 
ripe  red  earth,  of  wide  water  meadows  and  shining 
corn.  Buckfastleigh  has  vanished  ;  gauzes  of  salmon- 
net  rise  along  the  reaches ;  and  then,  navigable  now, 
the  river  sees  for  the  last  time  certain  grey,  southern 
crowns  of  her  motherland  afar  off  on  the  ramparts 
of  the  Moor.  Now  the  little  township  of  Totnes 
shimmers  under  shining  blue  mist  of  slate  roofs  sur- 
mounted by  a  red  church  tower ;  then  it  is  lost,  and 
with  it  Dartmoor  vanishes  for  ever,  while  in  many 
a  noble  turn  and  bend  the  tidal  river  sweeps  on- 
ward beneath  hanging  woods.  Here  arise  plane  on 
plane  of  green  oak,  shining  with  reflected  light, 
fretted  and  inwrought  with  the  deep  but  scanty  shadows 
of  noon.  On  either  bank  little  calves  stand  in  the 
shade,  their  water-pictures  ruddy  on  the  oily  umber  of 
the  shadowed  river ;  horses  meet  also,  fraternise,  and 
stand  side  by  side,  with  nose  to  tail,  after  their  wise 
way,  that  each  may  whisk  the  flies  from  off  his  brother. 
Shorn  grass  lands  and  corn  ready  for  the  sickle,  broken 
spinnies,  scattered  elms  in  the  long  hedgerows,  and 
wide  spaces  of  the  Devon  red  extend  here  to  left,  to 
right,  and  before. 

Presently  Duncannon's  cots  peep  along  the  bank, 


156  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

and  the  whitewash,  thatch,  and  nestling  grey  home- 
steads of  Stoke  Gabriel  make  the  shore  beautiful. 
Hereby,  in  great  shadows  touched  with  green,  a 
party  of  snow-white  ducks  lends  light  to  the  heart 
of  a  soft  gloom  cast  from  overhanging  trees  ;  and 
charlock  flames  in  a  turnip  field  on  the  hill  —  a 
thing  fine  to  see,  but  of  colour  raw,  contrasted  with 
the  deep,  rich  glow  of  ripening  wheat  in  a  neigh- 
bouring croft.  The  wind  is  on  the  water,  and  sweep- 
ing the  uplands  also.  Beneath,  ripple  on  ripple  of 
silver  and  of  music  waken  the  river  at  a  sudden 
bend ;  above,  the  glory  is  over  the  corn,  sweeping 
the  swaying  harvest  of  grain,  streaking  each  field 
with  waves  of  pure  light,  where  the  shining  glumes 
reflect  their  share  of  the  sunshine  simultaneously  in 
myriads. 

Ahead,  on  the  right  bank,  lies  Dittisham,  winding 
upwards  from  the  shore  like  a  mighty  snake  whose 
scales  are  all  blue  slates.  Quaint  cottages  cluster 
along  the  water  here,  then  ascending,  are  seen  in  line 
through  the  plum  trees  that  clothe  these  hills  with 
dark  green.  On  the  left  bank  rise  other  woods  aglow 
in  opposition  to  the  sun,  and  a  cottage  lies  at  the 
foot  of  them.  Wood-smoke  twines  upward  from  its 
chimney  against  the  sunny  forest,  and  there  is  music 
on  the  water  in  notes  from  the  ferry  bell. 

Then  the  approaching  sea  makes  itself  felt.  Dart's 
banks  are  draped  with  amber  weed  along  the  tide- 
way ;  limestone  crags  rise  above,  and  a  little  sail  bobs 
here  and  there  in  the  expanse  of  water.  Another 


DART  157 

bend,  and  the  black  and  white  hulks  of  the  doomed 
Britannia  and  her  sister  school-ship  rise  against  the 
hazes  of  Dartmouth  town.  There  is  salt  in  the  wind, 
music  of  gulls  in  the  air,  and  the  river,  her  journey 
ended,  her  fair  course  run,  peacefully  melts  into  the 
heart  of  the  blue. 


HARVEST 

>RN  grows  at  the  cliff  edge,  and  the 
golden  vanguard  of  the  harvest  comes 
close  to  the  top  of  great  precipices  and 
nods  at  the  sea.  Only  a  footpath  separ- 
ates these  fields  from  the  slopes  and  escarpments. 
Sometimes  the  land  falls  sheer  to  the  green  water  ; 
sometimes  it  descends  in  broken  steps,  where  the 
samphire  flourishes  and  the  thrift's  green  cushions 
cling ;  sometimes  it  breaks  away  more  gradually,  and 
upon  its  scorched  and  weather-worn  face  many  things 
grow  and  pass  through  their  brief  visible  phases  until 
they  vanish  again,  and  in  the  shape  of  root  or  seed 
pursue  their  unseen  life. 

The  wind  brushes  the  wheat  as  it  brushes  the  sea 
below,  and  undulations,  marked  by  a  sheen  of  pure 
light,  ripple  over  the  harvest ;  while  as  the  water- 
waves,  sweeping  onward,  reveal  the  weeds  below  and 
surfer  the  growth  of  the  sea  to  come  to  light  for  a 
moment  in  bunches  and  streamers  before  they  are 
again  concealed,  so  here,  with  every  touch  of  the  sum- 
mer wind,  flame  lovely  weeds,  and  poppies  splash 
the  harvest  with  scarlet,  and  gipsy-roses  and  corn- 
flowers light  the  gleaming  surfaces  with  lavender,  or 
touch  them  with  deep  blue. 

158 


HARVEST  159 

Small  things  hidden  far  beneath  the  corn-tops 
make  a  lovely  carpet,  out  of  which  spring  up  the 
yellow  stalks.  There  the  little  sherardia  trails  its 
trifling  blooms,  and  the  corn-mint  prospers,  and  the 
corn-galium  and  yellow-eyed  corn-pansy  dwell  to- 
gether. About  the  shining  stems,  that  leap  upwards 
to  light  and  air,  the  black  bindweed  twines  and  climbs ; 
while  at  the  corn  edge  grow  the  succory,  with  sky-blue 
flowers  clinging  close  to  the  stems,  great  centauries, 
sow-thistles,  the  harsh  and  hairy  ox-tongue,  and  the 
brilliant  corn-chrysanthemum. 

Against  the  edge  of  the  cliff  lies  the  blue  horizon 
of  the  sea ;  above,  the  gulls  wheel  and  turn,  and  their 
thousand  wings  make  a  gentle  whispering  akin  to  the 
music  of  the  wind  in  the  corn,  where  the  dry  husks 
are  laughing,  as  a  million  ears  pressed  down  by  breezes 
whisper  and  rustle  musically  together. 

In  sight  of  the  growing  food,  one  has  no  thought 
of  daily  bread ;  one  is  not  burdened  with  statistical 
monitions ;  one  does  not  mourn  before  the  gloomy 
spectacle  of  a  crop  sowed  in  doubt  and  gathered 
without  enthusiasm.  You  shall  find  all  that  mournful 
story  in  other  pages ;  but  for  the  moment  it  is 
enough  to  note  the  glory  of  this  royal  colour  against 
the  sea-line  ;  to  hear  the  song  of  the  wheat  above  and 
the  wave  beneath  ;  to  watch  the  lovely  work  of  in- 
visible winds  on  earth  and  sea ;  to  listen  to  the  lark 
and  the  purr  of  the  reaper  close  by,  where  already 
husbandmen  set  about  their  labour. 

With   magic   hands   the   great    machine    cuts   and 


i6o  MY   DEVON  YEAR 

binds  and  throws  forth  the  sheaves.  Wooden  arms 
stretch  out  of  it,  wheels  whir  and  glitter  within ; 
the  thing  toils  ceaselessly  like  a  slave,  and  behind  it 
bundles  of  corn  lie  spread  along  at  the  harvest  edge, 
and  the  next  swath  to  fall  shivers  as  though  it  under- 
stood that  the  knife  was  near. 

Then  follows  the  cart  along ;  the  harvest  vanishes  ; 
and  the  small  procumbent  flowers,  that  have  dwelt 
within  its  depths,  stare  up  bewildered  into  the  eye  of 
the  unveiled  sun,  and  hasten  to  set  their  little  seeds 
before  he  has  scorched  life  and  power  of  reproduction 
out  of  them. 


-THE    OLD    MEN" 

KNOW  a  grey  ring  of  stone  that  lies 
between  two  hills,  shines  there  in  summer 
sunlight,  glimmers  through  mist  and  rain, 
vanishes  awhile  at  the  time  of  snow.  It  is 
uplifted  under  the  sky  ;  its  ruins,  despite  their  age,  are 
very  perfect ;  within  its  embrace  lie  four-and-twenty 
homes  of  the  Neolithic  or  later  stone-men,  who 
flourished  here  before  history  has  anything  to  tell  of 
England.  Seen  from  the  crest  of  Hameldon  on 
Dartmoor,  this  venerable  settlement  writes  upon  the 
heather  and  autumnal  furze  its  story  of  a  past  now 
buried  in  time  beyond  power  of  probing.  All  chroni- 
cles of  Grimspound  must  rest  upon  conjecture,  yet  the 
modern  antiquary,  with  enthusiasm  for  his  strength  and 
imagination  to  light  him,  has  wrought  here  and  lifted 
the  veil  a  little.  By  the  granite  foundations  of  their 
homes,  by  their  walls  raised  for  defence  against  man 
or  beast,  by  their  mystic  circles  still  standing  on 
lonely  heaths,  by  their  alignments  and  monoliths,  and 
by  the  places  where  they  laid  their  dead,  the  races  of 
old  time  may  be  brought  a  little  nearer,  and  their 
story  shadowed  in  this  record  of  plutonian  rocks. 
These  fragments,  indeed,  cannot  with  certainty 

M  161 


1 62  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

be  connected,  and  no  man  may  declare  that  the 
"sacred"  circles,  so  called,  date  from  the  same  period 
as  the  familiar  barrows  with  their  kistvaens,  or  such 
settlements  as  are  represented  by  Grimspound  and 
like  scattered  villages.  Of  the  solitary  circles  that 
lift  their  separate  stones  in  rings,  and  steal  from  under 
grey  mists,  or  shine  in  yellow  twilights  to  startle  the 
wanderer  by  their  sudden  apparition,  we  only  under- 
stand that  they  are  megalithic,  and  that  they  are 
universal,  for  similar  monuments  shall  be  found  in  the 
desert  places  of  the  Old  World  and  the  New. 

Their  aim  is  not  known,  and  whether  they  stood 
for  the  house  of  the  stone-man's  god,  for  his  market- 
place, his  necropolis,  or  other  end  has  yet  to  be  dis- 
covered. That  they  survive  from  a  past  of  great 
antiquity  has  been  proved  beyond  question  ;  and  the 
tin-streamer's  ancient  works,  lying  scattered  within 
sound  of  every  river,  together  with  the  ruins  of 
his  blowing-house  and  the  fragments  of  his  mould, 
are,  like  the  spacious  times  wherein  he  flour- 
ished, affairs  of  a  mediaeval  yesterday,  beside  the 
hoary  years  that  saw  these  stone  -  circles  uplifted. 
These  still  stand,  but  the  thews  and  muscles  that  set 
their  rude  pillars  have  vanished  ;  the  very  bones  of 
the  old  men  have  helped  to  furnish  strength  to  the 
heather  and  the  fern,  because  the  peat  lacked  that 
property  their  ashes  held.  Now  they  that  trod  these 
wastes  are  part  of  it,  and  the  blood  they  shed  has 
helped  to  enrich  the  earth,  and  the  tears  they  shed 
have  driven  with  rain  to  the  roots  of  the  bilberries. 


"THE   OLD   MEN"  163 

All  is  unchanged  ;  and  here,  at  high  noon,  I  see  their 
ancient  lodge  still  lying  in  the  heath  between  great 
hills.  The  huts  are  roofless,  and  the  domes  that  rose 
above  each  stone  foundation  have  disappeared.  Time 
and  man  have  broken  their  outer  walls,  and  all  that 
could  perish  of  them  has  passed  with  the  blue 
smoke  that  aforetime  curled  above  each  edifice ; 
but  their  environment  endures  in  a  robe  of  many 
colours.  The  ling  still  lights  with  rose  each  hill  and 
valley ;  the  furze  still  hangs  a  cloth  of  gold  on  the 
shoulders  of  these  ragged  mountains.  Where  once 
Danmonian  babies  ate  wild  berries  and  made  their 
little  mouths  as  black  as  their  eyes,  small  people  still 
straggle  over  the  heath  and  take  pleasure  in  the 
fruits  of  the  earth  scattered  there  free  of  their  plea- 
sure. But  the  village  children  carry  metal  cans  ; 
those  that  went  before — those  whose  wild  mothers  sat 
here  and  watched  them  on  this  same  stone  that  gives 
me  rest — knew  nothing  of  the  marvel  of  metal.  Iron 
and  brass  were  hidden  from  them  ;  flint  was  still  their 
servant ;  and  to  this  day  the  rabbit  scratches  Neolithic 
man's  implement  from  his  burrow,  and  the  mole 
throws  up  a  stone-warrior's  weapon  as  he  breaks  the 
grass  and  piles  dark  earth  in  a  little  hill  on  the  green. 
From  Hameldon  shall  be  seen  the  watershed 
of  Devon  extended.  Dartmoor  rises  to  stony  peaks 
and  falls  into  deep  gorges  and  placid  valleys  ; 
beyond  its  tablelands,  into  the  mist  of  distance,  ex- 
tends a  mosaic  of  fields  wrapped  in  milky  hazes, 
touched  by  sunshine,  darkened  by  the  shadows  of 


1 64  MY  DEVON   YEAR 

clouds.  The  Moor  rises  above  this  ambient  culture 
like  a  savage  thing  in  the  courts  of  civilisation.  No 
skill  of  man  has  tamed  it,  no  industry  has  won  it  to 
practical  uses.  We  scratch  it  and  water  it  with  our 
sweat ;  we  snatch  fearfully  from  it  here  and  there  ;  we 
grope  in  its  heart  of  stone ;  but  it  lifts  itself  above  us 
and  our  earth-hunger  to  the  sky  ;  it  rolls  upward  to 
the  glories  of  Cosdon  Beacon  and  High  Willhayes, 
to  the  loneliness  of  Fur  Tor  and  Yes  Tor,  to  the 
tremendous  ridges  of  Cut  Hill,  to  the  towers  and 
battlements  of  Wattern,  to  the  turrets  of  Great  Mis 
Tor,  and  to  the  hogged  back  of  this  same  Hameldon, 
where  now  I  stand  in  sunlight  and  survey  the  homes 
of  the  old  men  beneath  me.  I  think  of  these  hills  as 
burying-places  of  a  folk  nearer  the  birth  of  the  world 
by  centuries  than  we  are.  So  seen,  they  are  sacred, 
and  they  ennoble  the  human  dust  in  their  hearts 
and  are  ennobled  by  it.  Here  are  pyramids  and 
monuments  lifted  at  creation  for  a  race  that  then  was 
not,  and  now  is  not  again  ;  here  are  memorials  to  out- 
last all  human  mausoleums  and  sepulchres  that  were 
ever  raised  toward  heaven  or  sunk  into  earth  by  piety 
and  pride. 

The  cairns  and  kistvaens  of  Dartmoor  have  been 
rifled  by  generations  that  followed  each  other  before 
any  science  of  archaeology  arose  to  stand  between 
them  and  this  mortuary  of  their  fathers.  Eliza- 
bethan miners  destroyed  many  a  barrow  in  hope  of 
gain ;  while  both  before  and  since  their  time  the 
credulous  and  greedy  savage  has  braved  imaginary 


"THE   OLD   MEN"  165 

evils  and  sought  imaginary  treasures  in  these  pre- 
historic tombs.  Their  names  in  the  local  tongue  still 
indicate  the  renown  in  which  they  were  once  held. 
They  are  called  "money  pits,"  "money  boxes," 
"crocks  of  gold"  ;  and  the  fancy  that  they  contained 
secret  hoards  is  ancient,  for  Edward  II.  gave  special 
grants  for  searching  of  Devonshire  barrows. 

Some  of  these  graves  are  very  narrow  in  the  kist, 
and  indicate  cineration  of  the  corpse  that  rested  there ; 
others  probably  contained  contracted  or  doubled -up 
skeletons,  whose  bones  have  been  dust  two  thousand 
years  and  more.  Occasional  un-urned  fragments  tell 
of  a  higher  civilisation,  for  hard  by  this  spot  above 
Grimspound  the  things  discovered  within  a  tomb 
indicated  intercourse  between  the  Danmonians  and  a 
people  nearer  the  light.  Here  were  amber  and  bronze 
given  up  from  a  tumulus  that  also  held  the  cremated 
remains  of  some  hero  who  had  achieved  these  posses- 
sions in  battle  or  by  barter.  The  stone  avenues  that 
spring  up  and  wind  away  to  the  inner  loneliness  are 
also  probably  connected  with  purposes  of  sepulture ; 
and  the  hut-circles  or  hut-foundations,  generally  to  be 
met  with  nigh  the  rivers,  stand  for  the  homes  and 
haunts  of  that  scattered  people  who  formed  a  consider- 
able population  on  the  high  Moor  in  times  of  old. 
They  endure,  and  charcoal  still  lies  black  on  the  hidden 
hearthstones  under  the  grass  that  covers  their  floors. 
Shards  of  coarse  pottery  also  appear,  and  the  flint- 
flake  implements  have  not  changed  since  their  makers' 
hands  grew  cold. 


i66  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

Under  the  grey  and  golden  weather,  and  through  the 
pageant  of  the  seasons,  these  deserted  villages  lie  on 
Time's  lap  and  promise  to  exist  as  long  as  the  earth 
shall.  Around  them  ghosts  of  the  grey  old  men  steal 
under  my  vision  in  this  noontide  hour.  Again  they 
tramp  their  weary  roads,  joy  in  new-born  life,  and 
mourn  their  fallen  braves ;  again  their  stone  axes  slay 
the  bear  and  wolf,  whose  bloody  pelts  grace  women's 
shoulders  ;  again  do  young  men  love  and  make  ordeal 
by  battle  for  the  maidens  ;  again  mothers  rock  their 
babies  in  the  shields  of  warrior  sires  ;  again  they  dream 
dreams  of  their  little  ones,  and  of  the  part  they  shall 
presently  play  in  the  history  of  their  world  ;  again  the 
youths  clamour  to  be  doing,  and  the  old  men  find  virtue 
in  many  words ;  again  the  folk  pray  to  their  God 
behind  the  thundercloud,  sacrifice  to  him  in  hour  of 
need,  or  lift  a  pagan  hymn  and  thanksgiving  when 
their  days  are  warmed  with  sunshine  and  filled  with 
plenty. 

They  sleep  in  night  eternal  below  the  roots  of  the 
heather  ;  their  tale  is  told  ;  their  short  days  numbered  ; 
but  the  granite  that  their  hands  dragged  sadly  to  mark 
a  grave,  hopefully  to  build  a  home,  still  stands. 
"  Time,  which  antiquates  antiquities,  and  hath  an  art 
to  make  dust  of  all  things,  hath  yet  spared  these  minor 
monuments."  And  seeing  the  stones  scattered  here 
so  harmonious,  so  solemn,  and  so  still,  my  heart  goes 
out  to  those  vanished  shepherds,  and  I  love  them 
across  the  dark  waves  of  time  that  roll  between  their 
pilgrimage  and  my  own. 


EVENING    LIGHT 

HERE  falls  an  hour  on  summer  evenings 
when  the  sun  takes  to  himself  fairy 
tinctures  before  twilight,  endues  his  beam 
with  a  mellow  glow,  blesses  rather  than 
burns,  and  writes  a  benison  in  letters  of  red  gold  on 
the  weary  earth.  Now  this  period  of  benignant  light 
chimes  happily  with  moments  of  human  leisure,  for 
labour  has  ended  upon  its  coming,  and  the  working 
day  is  done.  There  reigns  a  peaceful  pause  within 
the  confines  of  the  farm,  and  all  may  enjoy  some 
rest.  The  house  -  places  are  empty  for  a  little 
while,  and  the  cricket  chirps  alone.  It  would  seem 
that  life  of  men  and  women  is  hiding  for  a  space ; 
each  separate  soul  has  departed  into  some  haunt  of 
privacy,  and  the  hive  grows  hushed  in  this  gracious 
hour  before  sunset.  No  voice  breaks  the  silence,  no 
wheel  grates  and  jolts  without,  no  dog  barks,  no  little 
children  shout,  for  they  are  all  in  dreamland.  The 
fowls  have  clucked  themselves  to  roost,  the  horses 
silently  munch  their  supper,  and,  after  milking,  the 
kine  have  returned  to  the  meadows. 

In  the  lanes  and  along  the  field-paths  the  folk  are 
passing  and  repassing  from  the  village.     Here  a  man 

167 


1 68  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

moves  alone  and  looks  at  the  corn  ;  here  another 
meets  a  companion,  and  they  praise  the  fair  weather 
and  go  on  their  way  ;  here  lovers  wander  together, 
and  the  ruddy  light  is  woven  into  their  dream  of 
happiness.  Unconsciously  their  hopes  are  touched  by 
the  evening  glow  ;  unknown  to  him  it  steals  to  the 
boy's  understanding,  wakes  a  dumb  sense  of  the  ideal 
hidden  even  within  a  rustic  breast  at  love  time,  in- 
spires a  vague,  fleeting  emotion,  flashes  into  his  being 
as  he  kisses  the  girl  and  shadows  forth  a  joy  resulting 
to  him  from  her  worship — a  joy  beyond  possession. 
And  the  red  light  that  makes  her  white  sun-bonnet 
so  rosy  gladdens  the  maid's  heart  also  and  softens 
her  voice,  and  sets  a  pathetic  token  in  her  innocent, 
childish  eyes  as  she  lifts  them  up  to  him. 

Rest  well  won  is  the  message  of  this  lingering 
radiance.  It  dwells  on  the  pine  woods  with  gentle- 
ness, and  lights  the  pigeon's  wing  as  he  clatters 
upward  ;  it  lies  in  level  spaces  on  the  meadows  and 
reddens  the  rabbits  at  their  evening  play.  It  expresses 
itself  musically  in  the  last  song  of  the  thrush  ;  it  kisses 
the  river's  face,  enriches  foam  and  fret  of  falling  water 
with  jewels  unnumbered,  or  paints  the  smooth,  deep 
reaches  with  images  from  the  sky ;  it  transforms  the 
colours  of  the  flower,  wins  the  blush  of  whole  orchards 
that  take  the  sunset  gloriously ;  seeks  the  great,  pure 
umbel-bearers,  who  for  a  moment  change  their  colour 
in  its  ardent  kiss.  On  wastes  and  woodlands,  down 
old  grass-grown  lanes,  through  the  avenues  of  the 
trees,  and  by  forgotten  ways,  long  since  restored  to 


EVENING   LIGHT  169 

nature,  the  red  light  comes.  Even  to  the  dark  hearts 
of  forests  these  living  lances  find  an  entrance,  until, 
broken  by  great  and  lesser  boughs,  barred  and 
shattered  in  the  wilderness  of  living  woods,  they 
merge  again  into  a  liquid  splendour  that  burns  without 
candescence  and  floods  the  forest  with  misty  gold.  A 
web  of  fire  trembles  in  the  secret  places  of  the  trees, 
hangs  above  the  stocks  and  stones,  the  mosses  and 
ivies,  the  stealthy  flowers,  and  those  sanguine,  young, 
silver  saplings  upspringing  that  rise  at  the  feet  of 
their  ancestors  and  answer  for  the  future  prosperity 
of  this  scene.  These  things  know  not  the  noontide 
sun  in  their  sequestered  haunts  and  dim  dwelling- 
places,  for  the  crowns  of  the  wood  win  all  his 
splendour,  and  it  is  only  in  clear  dawns  or  at  the 
hour  before  twilight  that  he  pierces  the  hidden  under- 
world with  flame. 

To  the  West  the  sun  is  stooping  and  sinking  upon 
the  bosom  of  the  hills,  until  by  that  descent,  seen 
through  earth's  lovely  veil,  he  shares  the  very  pulse 
and  heart-beat  of  life,  and  comes  close  to  his  planet- 
child  for  one  moment  before  passing.  Then  may  we 
look  on  his  face  with  eyes  undimmed,  and  watch  him 
throb  and  vanish  to  waken  a  sleeping  hemisphere  and 
call  other  men  to  their  labour.  At  noon  he  is  master 
and  monarch ;  all  life  waits  beside  his  throne,  and  all 
mundane  existence  depends  upon  his  lustre ;  but  in 
this  hour  a  time  for  rest  and  dreaming  shall  be 
found ;  and  the  roseal  sunshine  smiles  upon  us,  like 
the  spirit  of  a  familiar  and  a  friend.  Now  do  things 


1 70  MY  DEVON   YEAR 

that  were  precious  at  noon  change  their  shapes,  until 
their  shadows  loom  larger  and  more  real  than  them- 
selves ;  now  do  thoughts  that  were  good  at  midday 
cast  shadows  long  and  deep,  even  as  great  spaces  in 
the  mind  may  be  umbrated  by  images  of  ambition,  and 
wide  mental  countries  overcast  by  the  shade  of  desire. 

The  red  light  travels  over  the  edge  of  the  world 
and  comes  to  rest  in  a  shorn  hayfield,  after  its 
journey  through  space  to  earth's  summer-clad  bosom 
and  peaceful  seas.  It  spreads  upon  each  blade  and 
grass-blossom,  each  ox-eye  daisy  and  nodding  thistle- 
plume.  It  falls  gently,  equably,  in  one  embracing 
sweep ;  it  distributes  a  single  and  pure  tone  over  all 
things  ;  it  forgets  no  leaf  nor  bud ;  adds  a  glory  to 
the  belated  insect's  wing,  a  splendour  to  the  little 
shell-snail  that  anticipates  the  dew  and  creeps,  not 
without  toil,  upward  to  win  a  share  of  the  universal. 

As  the  sun  sank  down,  as  the  earth,  turning  away 
from  the  opal  purity  of  the  West,  rolled  easily  over 
on  her  soft  couch  in  space  and  disposed  her  bosom 
to  welcome  a  summer  night,  the  pearly  moon  arose 
and  took  shape  above  the  gloom  of  the  horizon,  above 
the  dim  and  carmine  transparencies  of  after -glow 
upon  the  eastern  hills.  Hesitating,  trembling,  half- 
concealed  by  many  films  and  diaphanous  draperies 
of  the  gathering  murk  that  hovered  before  her  face, 
she  floated  upwards.  Then  the  earth-born  vapours 
shrank  away  and  vanished,  or,  greatly  glorified, 
spread  soft  fabrics  along  her  stairways,  and  carried 
her  silver  on  their  shining  wings  to  the  upper  heaven. 


EVENING   LIGHT  171 

And  earth  sighed  in  sleep  beneath  that  glittering 
world,  because  the  moon  is  a  glass  wherein  the 
living  planet  may  see  her  own  story  as  the  future 
shall  write  it  and  end  it.  The  moon  is  her  ever- 
present  sermon,  glorious  in  the  reflected  sunlight,  yet 
compact  of  dust  and  ashes,  a  ghost  that  steals  along 
the  confines  of  night,  a  skeleton  at  the  world's  full 
feast  of  abundant  vitality.  For  us  indeed — being 
but  the  midges  of  an  hour — this  tremendous  vision 
carries  no  personal  message  ;  its  mockery  of  life  is 
too  enormous  and  too  remote  to  move  mankind ;  but 
I  conceive  of  the  Mother  as  gazing  upward  in  sorrow 
from  her  green  hills  and  fertile  valleys,  from  her 
teeming  seas  and  many  waters,  from  the  multitudinous 
living  things  that  she  loves.  Her  hour  of  rest  is 
haunted,  her  heart  something  chilled  by  the  cold 
and  lovely  face  of  her  dead  sister.  Therefore,  when 
day  has  vanished  altogether,  and  moisture  limns  its 
trailing  curtains  on  the  meadows ;  when  star  and  glow- 
worm twinkle ;  when  nocturnal  voices  float  along  the 
air  and  beneath  the  woods ;  when  fall  a  final  silence 
and  universal  sleep,  the  wakeful  Earth  shall  lift  her 
dark,  dewy  eyes  to  the  firmament  and  marvel  dumbly, 
because  the  lesser  light  proclaims  how  that  for  her  and 
all  who  dwell  upon  her  bosom,  Death,  in  his  eternal 
patience,  also  waits. 


A    SUMMER-CLAD    HEATH 


JNDER  a  haze  of  cloud  hung  sky-high 
above  an  invisible  sea,  the  eastern  horizon 
lies  hidden  from  my  lofty  standpoint.  I 
cannot  win  any  glimpse  of  coast-line  low 
down  under  the  pale  atmosphere ;  I  cannot  note  those 
remote  features  of  river  estuaries  and  towns  upon 
them  that  may  be  seen  from  here  when  the  West 
or  South  wind  blows  and  lends  sharp  definition  to 
many  distant  things  unseen  in  this  sunshine. 

To-day  the  sky  is  cloudless ;  the  easterly  wind  a 
mere  breath,  felt  even  at  this  altitude  in  pleasant 
kisses  upon  the  cheek,  where  I  stand  on  the  confines 
of  Devon's  great  central  waste.  Beneath,  rolling  out 
of  the  misty  horizon,  there  spreads  the  wide  world  of 
the  South  Hams — field  and  forest,  great  round  hills 
and  level  plains  between  —  extended  like  a  fair 
garment,  bejewelled  with  harvests,  enriched  with  all 
those  tawny  tones  that  hot  sunshine  paints  upon  the 
grass  lands  ;  cooled  by  the  silver  threads  of  little  rivers 
intertwining,  wrought  out  into  a  human  pattern  by  the 
far-reaching  hedges,  the  orchards  already  beginning 
to  brighten  with  sunset-coloured  fruit,  the  thatch  and 
whitewash  of  lonely  cottages  and  hamlets,  and  the 

172 


IJ 


A   SUMMER-CLAD   HEATH          173 

towers  of  churches  that  rise  grey.  By  acclivities, 
gradual  and  vast,  through  pine  forests  and  over 
heathery  hills,  past  cots  and  snug  farmhouses,  the 
la~d  climbs  upward  to  the  granite  kings  of  it,  and 
here,  upon  this  heath,  one  stone  giant  stands  a 
sen  inel  on  the  southern  flank  of  the  Moor — stands 
as  he  has  stood  for  centuries,  welcomes  the  West 
wind  as  he  welcomed  it  before  the  stone-men  built 
their  huts,  stretched  their  alignments  across  the  waste 
places,  buried  their  mighty  dead  under  the  cairns, 
and  folded  their  flocks  from  wolf  or  bear  behind  the 
granite. 

Such  is  the  scene  from  the  heath  southward,  and 
the  misty  map  of  Devon  is  unrolled  to  the  fringe 
of  the  invisible  sea ;  but  a  different  spectacle  lies 
inland,  for  there,  crest  upon  crest,  the  great  hills  lift 
themselves ;  and  not  the  least  impressive  among  their 
manifold  qualities  of  gloom  and  splendour,  beauty 
and  austerity,  is  the  circumstance  of  their  shapes. 
Wonderful  is  the  variety  of  form  in  these  waves  of 
an  unchangeable  land-ocean.  From  Rippon's  jagged 
crown  upon  the  South-west  to  the  hogged  back  of 
Cosdon,  rounding  in  the  northern  boundaries  of  Dart- 
moor, many  a  mile  distant,  an  army  of  varied  and  giant 
shapes  is  outlined  against  the  horizon,  or  scattered  in 
the  huge  dips  and  hollows  of  the  land  beneath  it. 

*  "  Sun  and  shower, 

And  breeze  and  storm,  and,  haply,  ancient  throes 
Of  this  our  mother  earth,  have  moulded  them 

*  N.  T.  Carrington. 


174  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

To  shapes  of  beauty  and  of  grandeur — thus ; 

And  Fancy,  all-creative,  musters  up 

Apt  semblances.     Upon  the  very  edge 

Of  yonder  cliff  seem,  frowning  o'er  the  vale, 

Time-hallowed  battlements  with  rugged  chasms 

Fearfully  yawning ;  and  upon  the  brow 

Of  yonder  dreary  hill  are  towers  sublime, 

Rifted  as  by  the  lightning  stroke,  or  struck 

By  war's  resistless  bolts.     The  mouldering  arch — 

The  long  withdrawing  aisle, — the  shatter'd  shrine — 

The  altar  grey  with  age, — the  sainted  niche, — 

The  choir,  breeze-swept,  where  once  the  solemn  hymn 

Upswelled, — the  tottering  column — pile  on  pile 

Fantastic, — the  imagination  shapes 

Amid  these  wrecks  enormous." 

A  noble  peace  reigns  here,  and  though  the  skirts  of 
the  central  fastness  are  fretted  with  flocks,  herds,  and 
the  habitations  of  men,  yet  if  one  passes  onward  to 
the  inner  heart  behind  these  purple  hills,  he  shall 
enter  a  loneliness  and  feel  a  silence  profound  in  their 
intensity.  About  Fur  Tor,  upon  the  grey  head  of 
High  Willhayes,  or  in  the  desolation  of  such  regions 
as  Cranmere  Pool,  the  mother  of  Devon  rivers, 
no  beast  is  visible ;  a  bird  is  rare ;  the  husky  stridu- 
lation  of  grasshoppers  or  the  impressions  of  a  fox's 
pads  upon  the  mire  are  sole  indications  of  animate 
life.  There,  at  such  an  hour  as  this  of  summer  noon, 
no  sight  or  sound  that  speaks  of  man  shall  appear ; 
and  an  abstraction,  as  of  equatorial  deserts,  broods 
upon  the  granite,  the  heath,  the  quaking  bog.  Only 
the  wind  drones  in  the  crisp  heath-bells  ;  only  the 
solemn  cloud-shadows  pass,  like  forms  of  amorphous 


A   SUMMER-CLAD   HEATH          175 

life,  from  hill  to  valley,  from  valley  to  hill  again. 
Even  under  sunshine  and  blue  sky  the  great  tors 
lack  not  sublimity;  but  if  a  man  be  brave  enough 
to  face  them  at  another  season  and  wrestle  in  Winter 
with  the  North  wind,  he  shall  find  his  reward.  Then, 
wrapped  in  snow  or  curtains  of  mist,  these  hills  rise 
like  the  ghosts  of  their  former  selves  under  a  grey 
battle  of  low  clouds ;  and  the  rivers  howl  aloud, 
making  such  hoarse  music  as  they  who  only  see  their 
shrunken  volume  and  hear  their  baby  prattle  under 
summer  skies  shall  never  guess  at. 

In  the  moth-time  and  through  many  a  twilight 
gloaming  I  have  passed  among  the  old  stones  scattered 
here,  along  the  alignments,  and  through  the  dim 
circles  that  tell,  of  a  stone-man's  faith  or  mark  his 

grave. 

1  Scarce  images  of  life,  one  here,  one  there, 
Lay  vast  and  edgeways ;  like  a  dismal  cirque 
Of  Druid  stones,  upon  a  forlorn  moor, 
When  the  chill  rain  begins  at  shut  of  eve." 

So  Keats  in  the  "  Hyperion,"  and  though  this 
image  is  imputed  to  his  wanderings  in  Cumberland 
or  Scotland,  I  choose  rather  to  believe  that  one 
of  our  Dartmoor  monuments  awakened  it.  For 
"  Hyperion "  came  forth  in  1820,  after  the  poet's 
visit  to  Teignmouth  ;  and  from  that  little  town  the 
grey  girth  of  Hey  Tor,  the  steep  of  Lustleigh,  and 
the  crown  of  huge  Rippon  must  have  been  mirrored 
not  seldom  in  the  eyes  of  Keats.  I  will  stake  my 
love  of  him  that  he  trod  them  too,  and  moved  upon 


i  ;6  MY   DEVON  YEAR 

their  bosoms,  and  saw  something  of  the  inner  magic 
and  meaning  hidden  from  the  vision  of  us  common 
men. 

Upon  this  September  morning,  from  such  wide 
survey  and  prospect  did  I  lower  my  eyes  and 
make  another  examination  of  the  world  spread 
underfoot  —  that  many  -  tinted  garment  created  to 
clothe  these  high  places.  The  texture  of  the  heath 
is  very  rich ;  interwoven  of  all  blended  hues  and 
primary  colours ;  spread  with  cloth-of-gold ;  starred 
and  sprinkled  with  bright  gems ;  broadly,  generously 
planned  in  such  wise  that  tremendous  spaces  of 
flower-light  glide  from  the  interspaces  of  leafy  gloom, 
then  fade  and  fret  away  into  the  fern  and  stone 
again  ;  ordered  in  its  far-flung  planes,  its  heights  and 
hollows,  as  fitting  theatre  for  display  of  storm  and 
sunshine  ;  as  a  trysting-place  for  the  rainbows  and  the 
rain  ;  a  battlefield  for  the  lightning  and  the  winter 
hurricane. 

Its  warp  and  weft  is  of  the  ling  and  heather 
mingled  with  bilberry — a  fabric  of  special  beauty 
at  this  season,  when  pale  sheets  of  blossom-light 
sweep  over  it,  and  soften  the  sobriety  of  the 
web.  Wide  green  fingers  of  fine  grass  separate 
these  tapestries  hung  upon  the  bosoms  of  the  hills  ; 
and  for  brooch  and  jewel,  the  granite  sparkles, 
and  the  lesser  furze  shines  sun-bright  over  great 
tracts  or  in  solitary  mounds  and  cushions.  Through 
the  brown  and  amethyst  of  these  heathy  acres  and 
into  the  vesture  of  the  waste  is  woven  an  under- 


A   SUMMER-CLAD   HEATH          177 

pattern  of  silver-bright  heath -galium,  yellow  tor- 
mentil,  and  tangle  of  the  coral-pink  lesser  dodder ; 
while  in  springtime,  before  the  heath  awakened,  little 
milk-worts  peeped  about  here  under  the  ling,  and  pale 
violets  rose  singly  in  sheltered  corners,  and  dog-violets 
shone  in  friendly  clusters.  Through  the  heather,  like 
a  haze,  brushing  the  mellow  warmth  of  mingled  tints 
with  light,  rise  dead  grasses  that  make  a  play  of  bright- 
ness over  the  heath,  where  the  wind  bends  them  and 
the  sunshine  touches  their  polished  stems ;  while  the 
huge  masses  of  the  tors  also  answer  the  sun,  and  for 
his  warmth  return  a  display  of  Nature's  heraldries, 
pricked  out  upon  the  planes  of  the  granite  in  ochre 
and  chrome,  in  silver,  ebony,  and  orange  emblazon- 
ments, where  the  lichen  folk  spread  their  quick,  har- 
monious hues. 

And  upon  these  foundations  of  balanced  light  and 
contrasted  shadow  the  eye  may  dwell  not  vainly,  for 
the  vision  was  planned  at  primal  chaos ;  the  shape 
and  fashion  of  it  were  hid  in  the  wombs  of  volcanoes, 
under  the  icecaps  of  old — those  glacial  avalanches, 
harder  than  the  granite  itself — that  played  their  part 
and  left  the  mark  of  their  terrific  passing  for  ever. 
Time  drew  the  picture  spread  here;  countless  sun- 
rises and  sunsets  went  to  paint  these  splendours  and 
tone  these  misty  hills;  wind  and  rain,  hail  and  storm, 
mingled  the  colours ;  the  chisel  of  the  lightning 
fashioned  in  one  stroke  of  fire  many  among  the 
granite  towers  and  turrets  of  the  land. 


N 


THE    COMBES 


|F  one  ancient  English  word  may  specially 
be  cited  as  proper  to  the  West  Country, 
perhaps  " combe"  is  that  word.  It  is  pure 
Saxon,  according  to  most  philologists, 
though  I  learn  that  some  derive  the  word  from 
the  Welsh  cwm,  which  " combe"  resembles  both  in 
sound  and  significance.  There  are  in  Devon  above 
thirty  " combes"  or  "coombes"  without  any  other 
designation ;  more  than  twenty  villages  and  hamlets 
have  the  word  as  a  prefix  to  their  special  appellation  ; 
and  it  is  an  affix  to  two  hundred  places  in  the 
county. 

To  me  the  use  of  Shakespeare  commends  a  word 
before  all  things.  I  am  therefore  sorry  that  "  combe  " 
shall  be  found  nowhere  in  his  recorded  work,  but  his 
contemporary  poet,  our  own  William  Browne,  author 
of  Britannia  s  Pastorals,  employs  "  combe  "  to  proper 
purpose,  as  becomes  a  Devon  writer. 

The  word  is  so  much  part  of  descriptive  conversa- 
tion in  the  West,  and  conveys  a  meaning  so  distinct, 
that  to  display  a  combe  for  those  who  know  it  not 
becomes  at  once  a  curious  and  a  pleasant  task. 

To  make  mystery  of  the  matter,  or  pretend  that 

178 


THE  COOMBES 


THE   COMBES  179 

our  combes  are  so  called  because  no  other  word 
serves  their  turn,  would  be  a  vain  thing.  They  have, 
indeed,  a  distinction,  and  few  natural  scenes  can  be 
compared  with  these  deep  hollows  and  sudden  valleys, 
but  many  pretty  words  will  serve  to  bring  them 
before  you.  They  might  be  likened  to  miniature 
presentments  of  the  Derbyshire  dales,  or  Scottish 
glens  made  tame  and  tiny  and  sleepy.  They  might 
be  called  denes  or  dingles,  straths  or  dells,  or  any 
other  word  that  stands  to  mean  a  sequestered  place 
within  the  lap  of  high  lands. 

Some  of  our  combes  open  gradually,  through 
pastures  and  orchards,  from  the  hills  to  the  plains ; 
some  break  out  in  steep  gullies  and  embouchures 
of  limestone  or  sandstone  to  the  sea ;  some  are 
concavities,  where  Nature  hollows  her  hand  to  hold 
man's  homestead.  Gentle  depressions  between  red- 
bosomed  hills,  wide  meadows  extending  to  the 
estuaries  of  rivers,  sharp  rifts  echoing  with  thunder  of 
waves,  and  upland  plains  between  the  high  lands, 
where  whole  villages  cuddle,  may  all  be  combes.  So 
much  do  they  vary  in  their  character. 

A  sort  of  combe  peculiar  to  the  North  coast 
is  distinguished  by  some  grandeur,  and  one,  a  fair 
example  of  all,  I  name  for  reasons  to  appear.  Its 
deep  mouth  is  filled  with  the  outspread  Severn  Sea, 
its  sides  swelling  to  ocean-facing  precipices  of  five 
and  six  hundred  feet  high  are  clothed  in  fine  things, 
dwarfed  by  the  eternal  wind,  yet  sturdy  in  their 
struggle,  and  so  prosperous  and  contented  that  they 


i8o  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

blossom  and  fruit,  after  their  kind,  though  reduced  to 
a  miniature  habit.  Here  are  the  little  burnet-rose,  the 
vernal  squill,  the  pimpernel,  cudweed,  euphrasy,  sea 
stork's-bill,  the  frail  flax,  and  the  thyme.  Blackthorns 
and  hawthorns,  all  bending  East  like  sun-worshippers, 
stand  here  above  the  sea ;  the  thistle  and  the  teasel 
spring  in  colonies  on  giddy  slopes,  and  from  nooks 
and  crannies  the  samphire  and  bladder-campion  peep 
down  at  the  green  combing  seas  and  snowy  breakers 
below.  Far  beneath  spreads  the  valley,  and  meadows 
and  cornfields  extend  beside  a  trout  stream,  that  winds 
like  a  brown  and  silver  snake  in  the  heart  of  the 
combe.  Here  spring  alders,  sallows,  oaks  ;  and  lift- 
ing from  the  sweet  grasses  in  June  you  shall  find  dark 
spires  of  purple  monk's-hood,  beds  of  the  yellow  iris, 
and  fair  lacework  of  bryony  and  dog-rose  where  they 
trail  and  climb  along  the  banks  of  the  little  river.  If 
you  are  a  fisherman,  you  may  take  a  trout  here  within 
fifty  yards  of  the  beach,  for  the  stream  is  well  stocked, 
and  the  fish  inhabit  even  the  last  pool  that  stands 
above  high-water  mark.  From  this  spot  the  combe 
rivulet  leaps  an  apron  of  stones,  and  having  twinkled 
over  the  beach  awhile,  it  vanishes  amid  ribbed  sands 
and  limpet-covered  boulders. 

Turn  with  your  back  to  the  sea  and  look  inland, 
and  you  note  the  head  of  this  valley  bowered  in  noble 
hanging  woods  that  roll  with  each  undulation  of  the 
combe,  and  make  a  deep  semicircle  of  green.  Above 
them,  one  square  grey  church  tower  stands  in  the  dip 
of  the  hills ;  beneath  them,  are  scattered  a  cot  or  two 


THE   COMBES  181 

with  old  silver  thatch  and  gleaming  whitewashed  walls. 
Here  a  little  bridge  leaps  the  stream,  and  steep  roads 
climb  up  the  tremendous  acclivities  on  either  side. 
The  stream  glitters  beneath  and  peeps  here  and  there 
from  overhanging  bowers  of  trees.  To  its  song  is 
added  the  deep  murmur  of  the  sea  beneath. 

This  combe,  typical  of  the  North  coast,  on  both 
sides  of  those  invisible  boundaries  that  divide  Devon 
and  Cornwall  between  Bude  Bay  and  Hartland,  may 
thus  be  dwelt  on,  because  it  is  for  ever  famous.  Here, 
at  the  mill,  dwelt  Kingsley's  hapless  heroine  of  West- 
ward Ho  / 

The  southern  combes  that  open  on  the  Channel  are 
narrower  and  less  searched  by  the  sun.  They  lie 
deep  hid  in  ferns  and  shade-loving  things ;  they  hide 
the  lovely  bee-orchis,  the  purple  gromwell,  the  lesser 
meadow-rue,  the  seaside  carrot,  the  crow-garlic,  the 
wood-vetch,  the  Bithynian  vetch,  and  other  treasures. 
Their  sides  are  draped  with  the  wild  clematis,  their 
red  cliff-faces  furnish  a  home  for  jackdaws  and  hawks. 

And  inland  lie  those  deep  resting-places  that  abound 
in  this  county  of  many  hills.  Here  are  valleys  like 
cups,  into  which  one  must  sink  by  great  declivities ; 
here  lovely  hamlets  twinkle  their  white  walls  beside 
the  orchards,  while  grass  lands  and  red  earth  and  a 
medley  of  field  and  forest  rise  round  about ;  here 
farms  extend  in  the  midst  of  their  harvests,  where 
each  hollow  is  a  busy  centre  of  human  activity ;  and 
here,  callous  to  their  environment  and  its  significance, 
men  pursue  the  business  of  living,  and  are  seldom 


1 82  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

consciously  influenced  by  the  theatre  of  the  battle. 
They  have  been  born  in  the  combe  and  bred  in  it ; 
therefore  the  beauty  of  such  spots  conveys  but  little 
meaning  to  them.  They  only  wax  enthusiastic  over 
wide  pavements,  brick  and  mortar,  piled  stones,  and 
the  din  of  cities.  But  sometimes  fate  is  pleased  to 
waken  the  rustic  understanding,  and  chance  lets  light 
into  his  dim  mind  as  to  the  meaning  of  his  home. 
Those  who  have  been  called  away  and  suffered  to 
return  do  often  open  their  eyes  and  their  hearts  when 
the  familiar  scene  spreads  for  them  again.  Bury  any 
intelligent  country  boy  in  the  squalor  of  cities  for  a 
little  while,  then  let  him  loose  once  more,  and  he  shall 
possibly  come  back  to  the  land  with  a  lesson  learnt ; 
he  may  gaze  no  more  with  the  eyes  of  sheep  or  cow, 
but  comprehend  a  little  the  meaning  of  Spring  in  an 
orchard,  the  song  of  the  birds,  and  the  peace  of  the 
fields. 

For  some,  indeed,  this  secluded  existence  can 
possess  no  charm,  and  their  spirits  call  them  to  a 
wider  battlefield  ;  but  others,  having  wandered,  choose 
again  the  simpler  part,  and  return  with  thankful- 
ness, if  fate  allows.  Henceforth  such  seek  no  further 
than  the  encircling  hills  of  their  birthplace  for  the  best 
that  life  can  bring  them ;  and  if  health  be  the  highest 
happiness,  these  last  are  wise.  Yet  it  is  well  for  the 
urban  world  that  a  steady  stream  from  the  country 
flows  to  her ;  and  the  strong,  clean  men  and  women  of 
rural  England  are  to  be  thanked  for  the  fresh  blood 
they  yearly  pour  into  each  hungry  city.  With  the 


THE   COMBES  183 

ambition  of  the  country  come  the  muscle  and  physical 
vigour  of  the  country — essentials  to  the  city's  sustained 
prosperity.  London  must  be  renewed  from  outside. 
She  devours  her  own  brood  within  a  few  genera- 
tions, and  her  pure-bred  children  have  neither  a  long 
line  of  ancestors  nor  many  descendants.  It  is  to 
the  Devon  combes  and  like  domains  that  earth  must 
look  for  lineages  and  count  to  find  her  raw  material 
when  man's  work  calls  for  doing.  From  lusty  child- 
hood under  the  open  sky  and  all  winds  that  blow, 
from  simple  fare  and  endless  toil,  come  forth  the 
sons  of  labour  to  the  siren  song  of  cities.  With- 
out them  our  towns  must  quickly  turn  to  ruins, 
and  our  centres  of  civilisation  be  habitable  no  more. 
Brain-power  the  streets  may  breed,  but  muscle-power 
they  cannot,  for  thews  and  sinews  are  built  in 
Nature's  country  workshops.  And  muscle  shall  still 
be  venerated ;  muscle  shall  continue  a  factor  in 
affairs ;  the  spade,  pickaxe,  sledge  shall  endure  as  a 
working  triad  while  there  is  earth  to  shift  or  sweeten, 
stone  to  break,  and  metal  to  bend  to  the  use  of  man. 


WISTMAN'S    WOOD 


by  great  hills  that  fold  each 
upon  the  other  and  fade  into  distance  ; 
set  in  granite  and  briar,  brake-fern  and 
the  nodding  wood-rush,  Wistman's  Wood 
lies  basking  under  September  sunshine  to  the  song 
of  Dart.  Upon  a  south-facing  slope  the  hoary  dwarfs 
that  go  to  make  this  forest  grow,  and  each  parent 
oak  of  the  ancient  throng  was  old  before  the  Con- 
quest. Time  and  fire  have  slain,  yet  the  little  forest 
plays  its  part  in  the  spring  splendour  of  every  year, 
in  the  leafy  and  musical  hours  of  high  Summer,  and 
in  autumnal  pageants  as  the  centuries  roll.  Here, 
under  the  Dartmoor  hills  to-day,  sunshine  kisses  the 
granite  to  silver,  brightens  each  withered  and  distorted 
trunk,  makes  the  leaf  shine,  and  sets  rowan  berries 
glowing  through  the  ambient  green.  These  aged 
oaks  lack  not  virility,  for  I  see  their  ancient  crowns 
besprinkled  with  bright  leaflets  of  the  second  Spring, 
with  tufts  of  ruddy  foliage,  like  smiles  on  the  face  of 
frosty  age. 

Fruit,  too,  is  borne,  and  the  acorns,  flattened  some- 
what within  their  cups,  are  healthy  and  sweet  enough  ; 
so  the  legend  that  Wistman's  harvest  is  sterile  may 

184 


WISTMAN'S   WOOD  185 

be  easily  disproved  from  the  place  itself;  for  quick 
eyes,  peering  here  within  the  tangle  of  undergrowth, 
or  amid  the  deep  interstices  of  the  stony  avalanche 
from  which  this  forest  rises,  shall  find  infant  trees 
ascending  to  the  sapling  stage,  in  full  vigour  of 
promise.  Others  there  are  of  larger  growth,  and  one 
may  discover  oaks  at  all  ages,  from  the  tiny  seedling 
sprung  of  last  year's  acorn  to  the  patriarch  that  was 
a  sapling  when  the  she-wolf  made  her  home  here  and 
killed  the  stone-man's  cattle  by  night.  Mice  and 
birds  convey  the  acorns  to  great  distances  from  the 
wood,  and  upon  adjacent  heaths,  a  mile  from  their 
birthplace,  I  have  found  the  husks  of  the  fruit. 

Granite  and  oak  are  clothed  with  lichens  of  a 
colour  exactly  similar,  and  to  the  imagination,  seen 
thus  jagged  and  grey  together,  one  appears  as  endur- 
ing as  the  other.  The  old  trees,  whose  average  height 
is  scarcely  fifteen  feet,  are  distorted,  cramped,  twisted, 
and  knotted  by  time.  Their  mossy  limbs,  low  spread, 
make  a  home  for  the  bilberry,  whose  purple  fruit 
ripens  beside  the  acorns;  for  the  polypody  that  fringes 
each  gnarled  limb  with  foliage ;  for  the  rabbits, 
who  leap  from  the  stones  to  the  flat  boughs  spread 
upon  them ;  and  for  the  red  fox,  who,  sunning 
himself  in  some  hollow  of  moss  and  touchwood, 
wakes,  as  a  wanderer  assails  his  ear  or  nose,  and 
vanishes,  like  a  streak  of  cinnamon  light,  into  the 
depths  of  the  wood.  Here,  too,  the  adder  rears  her 
brood  ;  the  crow,  with  intermittent  croak,  flies  heavily  ; 
a  little  hawk,  poised  in  the  sky,  seeks  the  lizard 


1 86  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

below,  or  the  young  plover  in  the  marsh  upon  the 
hills. 

A  great  hush  and  peace  brood  over  Wistman's  Wood 
to-day.  As  yet,  but  one  pinch  of  Autumn  has 
transformed  the  leaf,  reddened  the  briar,  or  powdered 
the  fern  with  gold.  In  the  hollows  a  diamond  dew 
still  sparkles  though  the  hour  is  noon,  and  the  sweet, 
sharp  breath  of  September  whispers  along  the  wood. 
Still  every  ancient  crown  wears  the  deep  green  of 
Summer,  and  a  stray  honeysuckle  blossoms,  though 
its  berries  are  turning  scarlet ;  but  the  tender,  white 
corydalis  and  other  flowers  of  Summer  have  vanished  ; 
the  wood- rush  has  its  sharp  leaves  amber-pointed;  the 
heather  fades ;  and  the  wrinkled  wood-sage  likewise 
wanes  away. 

Below  there  races  Dart,  cherry-coloured  after  a 
freshet.  Her  foam  flashes  and  twinkles,  her  glassy 
planes  image  the  sun  in  stars  and  beams,  and  she 
signals  to  the  old  wood  above  and  laughs,  herself 
older  than  the  oaks  yet  blessed  with  the  eternal  youth 
of  flowing  waters.  Far  away,  beyond  the  granite 
mass  of  Crow  Tor  moorwards,  a  darkness  lies  upon 
the  hill  and  moves  not.  There  Western  Dart  is  born, 
and  bubbles  and  trickles  through  the  sponges  of 
peat  from  wells  deep  hidden  beneath  them.  Very 
musical  amid  these  echoing  gorges  she  winds  by 
granite  stairways  ;  and  above  her,  on  the  huge  hill- 
bosoms  of  grey  and  sunlit  green,  acres  of  dead  grass- 
blades  weave  a  veil  over  the  living  herbage — a  veil 
that  changes  with  every  magic  light  from  dawn  or 


WISTMAN'S   WOOD  187 

midday,  from  sunset,  or  the  radiance  of  the  moon. 
Here  great  cloud -shadows  roll  and  spread,  deepen 
and  die,  climb  the  steep,  breast  the  stone,  and  adorn 
each  undulation  with  flying  garments,  that  vary  in  their 
texture  from  opacity  of  royal  purple  to  the  film  and 
dream-colour  of  brief  hazes  drawn  between  earth  and 
sun.  Now  the  distance  shines  golden  in  a  frame  of 
shade ;  anon  darkness  spreads  to  the  blue  horizon, 
and  the  river  and  adjacent  hills  are  all  aglow  ;  then 
light  and  shadow  dislimn  and  interlimn  upon  the  great 
heaths  and  hills.  Detail,  invisible  in  sunshine,  wakes 
over  the  scattered  stone,  and  sphagnum-clad  bogs 
gleam  under  cloud-shadows,  while  elsewhere,  as  the 
veil  is  torn  away  and  the  light  bathes  all  again, 
new  visions  of  rounded  elevations,  wild  places,  and 
solitary  stones  start  into  sight  upon  each  sunny  plane. 
Detail  of  the  spring  gorse,  now  jade-green  ;  flame  of 
the  autumnal  furze  ;  light  of  the  ling ;  feast  of  tones 
and  undertones  ;  mosaic  of  all  tawny  and  rufous  colours 
are  here ;  and  the  scene  changes  its  hue  beneath  each 
shadow,  even  as  the  river's  song  changes  its  cadence 
at  the  pressure  of  the  breeze,  waxing  and  waning 
fitfully. 

The  wood  of  Wistman  partakes  of  these  many 
harmonies — adds  its  sudden  green  to  the  hillside — 
lies  there  a  home  of  mystery,  a  cradle  of  legend,  a 
thing  of  old  time,  unique  and  unexampled,  save  in 
Devon  itself,  all  England  over. 

Grey  tors  surround  this  valley  of  Western  Dart,  and 
granite  climbs  to  the  sky-line,  except  only  where  the 


1 88  MY   DEVON  YEAR 

river  winds  away  amid  fertile  newtakes  southward. 
Enthroned  here,  the  old  wood  abides  within  the  hand 
of  time ;  and  to  me,  as  I  dream  at  the  heart  of  it,  the 
dominant  idea  begotten  is  not  of  mystery  nor  yet  of 
awe,  but  a  reflection  won  from  the  carmine  colour- 
gleam  of  second  Spring.  That  these  most  vener- 
able and  mossy  boughs  can  so  win  the  earth-message 
and  the  sun-message,  can  renew  their  sap  through  the 
centuries  and  break  at  autumn  time  into  these  flush- 
ing coronets  of  new-born  leaves,  is  wonderful  to  me. 
While  their  trunks  waste  to  shell  and  skeleton, 
while  death  batters  the  gnarled  dwarfs  in  shape  of 
tempest  and  time,  they  answer  still  the  seasons' 
call ;  century  after  century  they  stud  their  crooked 
branches  with  buds,  and  burst  into  leaf  and  flower 
at  the  touch  of  a  returning  sun.  Here  is  English 
oak,  and  its  roots  are  twining  in  granite,  its  branches 
are  flourishing  with  rude  vigour  a  thousand  feet  above 
the  sea.  A  great  song  might  be  sung  from  this  second 
Spring  of  oaks  that  are  centuries  old. 

Sunshine  passes ;  the  light  creeps  upward  before 
onset  of  shadows  cast  by  the  western  hills ;  and 
so  Wistman's  Wood  is  buried  in  shade  again,  to 
sleep  through  another  night,  to  await  another  dawn. 
The  forest  has  witnessed  half  a  million  sunrises ;  and 
it  may  see  as  many  again,  or  endure  as  long  as  the 
granite  hills  that  circle  it  and  the  round  earth  where- 
on it  spins.  Such  concourse  of  venerable  life  has  a 
moral  value  in  some  sort  and  may  serve  to  fortify 
man's  heart.  Wistman's  Wood  also  is  part  of  the 


WISTMAN'S   WOOD  189 

universal  order  ;  these  gnarled,  virile  tree-dwarfs, 
even  as  the  sun  in  heaven  and  his  girdle  of  little 
worlds,  obey  that  Everlasting  Force  beckoning  from 
Hercules. 


SWAN    SONG 

|OW  fall  the  later  rains,  and  shining  through 
their  curtains,  where  they  sweep  along 
valley  and  estuary,  upland  and  great  hill, 
Autumn's  many-coloured  robes  gleam  under 
a  low  sun.  Observed  through  miles  of  moist  air,  the 
purity  of  these  transformations  is  strongly  marked  to 
a  colour-seeing  eye.  Over  the  beech  there  steals  day 
by  day  a  sort  of  golden  haze  that  brushes  the  gree-n. 
It  spreads  from  the  veins  into  the  texture  of  each  leaf, 
and  deepens  from  gold  to  a  ruddy  copper  hue.  High 
wind  or  pinch  of  frost  brings  the  foliage  to  earth,  and 
then  it  lies  in  the  snug  hollows  of  the  woods,  and 
spreads  a  rustling,  russet  carpet  under  the  naked 
trees.  Such  fallen  leaves  may  be  soaked  and  dried 
again  many  times  before  each  at  last  yields  its  tissue 
to  the  elements.  Paler  splendour  wakens  in  the  larch 
needles  before  they  fall.  They  make  lemon  light 
through  the  woodland  —  a  clear  radiance  not  less 
lovely  than  their  spring  green.  The  elms  break  into 
sudden  flashes  of  yellow,  where  some  branch  takes  full 
livery  of  Autumn  while  yet  the  greater  part  of  the 
foliage  is  untouched.  The  maple  flames  like  a  fire, 

190 


SWAN  SONG 


SWAN  SONG  191 

and  its  orange  tones  deepen  to  crimson  in  splashes 
and  faint  washes  on  each  dainty  leaf.  Against  the 
auburn  of  the  oaks,  blue  fir  trees  lift  their  crowns, 
and  in  the  heart  of  the  woods,  now  visible  amid  the 
thinning  foliage  of  deciduous  trees,  stand  out  sombrely 
the  great  dark  pines ;  twinkle  the  hollies,  reflecting 
light  in  each  leaf ;  and  shine  the  rich  ivies  that  clothe 
banks  and  bottoms,  mantle  the  combes  and  old  ruins 
in  lonely  places,  leap  to  the  trees,  festoon  their  top- 
most limbs,  and  fall  in  wreaths  and  ribbons  from 
them.  Where  a  glade  breaks  the  forest  one  may  see 
vistas  of  gold  fading  to  distances  that  are  at  this 
season  a  deep  blue  against  the  autumn  colours. 
The  woods  glow  to  their  hearts,  and  the  stand- 
ard of  death  streaming  out  over  the  whole  earth 
gathers  up  light  within  its  folds  and  shines  under 
early  sunsets.  Now,  in  a  clouded  moment,  where 
all  is  grey  and  robins  sing  in  the  rain,  these  colours 
lose  their  inner  wealth,  fade  somewhat,  and  grow 
pale  and  bloodless,  as  though  the  storms  were  soaking 
their  splendour  out  of  them.  But  then  some  shaft  of 
light  suddenly  searches  the  forests,  and  they  answer 
with  dazzling  flash  and  glow,  and  utter  their  swan 
song  of  colour  before  the  fall  of  the  leaf. 

Everywhere  Nature  now  trims  her  brightest  lamps 
in  leaf  and  berry.  The  thorn  and  the  briar  shine  with 
red  and  scarlet  fruit ;  the  blackberry's  beauty  is  in  her 
leaves  of  yellow  and  crimson  ;  the  dogwood's  foliage 
makes  contrast  of  a  dull  wine-colour  against  all  the 
light  and  sparkle  of  its  neighbours  ;  the  pearl  of  the 


192  MY  DEVON   YEAR 

seeding  clematis  powders  hedge  and  tree,  falls  over 
the  red  sandstone  rocks,  adds  a  light  to  the  limestone 
precipices,  or  shines  grey  where  it  hangs  on  some 
great  cliff's  face  above  the  sea.  In  the  broad,  salt 
estuaries  of  Exe  or  Teign,  fields  of  the  red  earth,  that 
hold  next  year's  corn,  are  reflected  in  perpendicular 
gleams  of  ruddy  light  on  the  rivers  ;  and  against  this 
brilliant  colour,  thrown  up  from  the  face  of  the  water, 
dead  asters  stretch  in  colonies  along  the  mudbanks, 
and  the  sedges  fade.  Above  farm  lands,  outspread 
in  a  patchwork  of  fallow  and  tilth — above  the  glory 
of  the  forests,  and  the  fringes  of  marsh  and  moss 
that  dip  from  loftier  regions,  Dartmoor  extends  and 
rises  gently  with  many  a  wooded  hill  and  heathery 
ridge  from  the  fertility  beneath.  The  wilderness  lifts 
up  her  head  in  peaks  of  granite,  or  rolls  along  in 
huge,  hog-backed  hills  that  swell  to  the  sky-line, 
featureless  and  unmarked  by  stone  or  tree.  Even 
here,  on  this  chaos  of  grey  granite  and  dead  heath, 
is  autumn's  colour  gorgeously  apparent  when  spread 
in  opposition  to  the  sunset  or  the  dawn.  The  dead 
fern  paints  whole  leagues  of  this  expanse,  and 
against  it  the  granite  takes  a  pure  blue  colour, 
brilliant  as  turquoise.  The  flower  -  stalks  of  the 
grasses  sink  into  one  prevailing  tawny  hue — a  shade 
that  asks  for  tender  evening  light  to  make  it  mel- 
low, or  purity  of  snow  to  reveal  its  true  tones ;  but 
the  bilberry  dons  fine  tints  in  death,  and  its  foli- 
age will  often  turn  to  scarlet  before  falling ;  the 
heather  takes  a  rusty  brightness  ;  reeds  and  rushes 


SWAN   SONG  193 

fade  to  browns  and  grey-browns  ;  the  asphodels 
glow  redly  in  the  marsh,  while  some  moorland  trees, 
such  as  certain  willows,  are  fairest  to  see  when  their 
foliage  has  fallen,  and  the  crimson  or  transparent 
brown,  olive,  or  golden-yellow  of  the  season's  growth 
appears.  Your  silver  birch  is  lovely  without  ceasing ; 
she  knows  no  other  state ;  she  is  perfect  in  prepara- 
tion, perfect  in  completion,  in  autumnal  decline  and 
under  winter  snows.  Her  gauze  of  delicate  traceries, 
rising  like  a  cloud  of  pale  purple  in  the  winter  woods  ; 
her  bursting  green  ;  her  high  summer  splendours  ; 
her  flying  gold  in  Autumn — all  are  manifestations  of 
unique  beauty.  Both  chestnuts  add  their  glory  to 
the  colour  song.  The  Spanish  fades  to  brown ;  the 
other  varies  much  through  all  shades  of  yellow. 
Sycamore  foliage  is  not  lovely  in  its  black-spotted 
death,  and  the  rowan  seldom  reveals  any  feast  of 
colour  :  her  glory  is  her  ripe  fruit.  Ash  keys  turn 
brown,  and  make  beautiful  contrast  with  the  ivy-clad 
bole  of  their  parent.  They  hang  after  the  leaves  of 
the  trees  have  fled. 

One  might  thus,  with  patience  and  scrutiny  extend- 
ing over  many  autumn  seasons,  examine  the  texture 
of  the  robe  that  October  weaves ;  but  here  it  is  rather 
attempted  to  display  the  opulent  glory  of  the  whole, 
and  paint  the  scene  that  rises  from  the  river's  brink, 
and  rolls  harmoniously  upward  through  valleys  and 
forests,  through  the  pasture  lands,  and  over  the 
earth,  until  it  breasts  the  great  central  loneliness, 
and,  dwarfed  to  the  desert's  humble  habiliments  of 
o 


i94  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

fern  and  heath,  yet  pursues  its  way  like  a  rainbow, 
and  leaves  no  gloomy  gorge  nor  solitary  tor  forgotten. 
The  colour  runs  like  a  fire,  and  whole  forests  catch 
it  in  a  night.  The  cherry's  foliage  at  a  spinny  edge 
suddenly  dons  its  last  blood -red  robe,  and  on  the 
magic  signal,  glade  after  glade  replies  with  kindling 
illumination — each  herb,  and  shrub,  and  forest  tree 
after  her  kind.  A  single  fern  turns  pale  or  red,  and 
in  a  week  the  hue  of  the  hills  has  changed. 

Nor  is  it  all  a  gorgeous  demonstration  of  death  out- 
spread upon  the  earth,  for  in  this  march  of  the  seasons 
Nature  has  determined  that  no  time  shall  lack  its  own 
treasures  of  perfected  life,  its  proper  blossom,  its  fruit, 
and  its  promise  of  fruit  The  oak's  autumn  is  the 
springtime  of  the  scarlet-crowned  fungus,  of  the  hosts 
of  the  agarics,  and  other  small,  hooded  people.  High 
winter  for  the  naked  larch  and  beech  will  find  many 
a  moss-tuft  brimming  with  minute  loveliness  and 
dainty  moss-flowers  showing  in  the  stalk-tips.  The 
giants  fling  their  arms  into  the  sky  for  the  wind  to 
play  upon ;  but,  beneath  them,  fairy  hosts  prosper, 
fulfil  the  law,  and  make  their  own  little  summer  at 
each  tree-foot,  fearless  of  rain  and  storm,  patient  of 
the  frost,  thankful  for  one  gleam  of  the  winter  sun. 
We  see  the  whole  stupendous  cycle  for  a  year  or 
two,  and  watch  the  Mother's  pictures  each  in  turn  as 
they  pass  unceasing ;  but  these  creatures  of  the  field 
and  wood  glorify  their  own  hours  alone,  without 
dreaming  of  what  is  passed,  or  knowing  what  is  to 
come.  Each  leaf  and  petal,  each  amber  stipule  and 


SWAN   SONG  195 

golden  anther  plays  its  perfect  part  in  the  story  with- 
out an  end.  But  the  violet  may  not  see  the  rose  ; 
the  rose  must  vanish  before  the  spikenard  comes. 
Neither  shall  any  flower  of  them  all  behold  her  own 
fruition.  They  call  the  bee  to  them,  and  pass  in 
peace,  not  lingering  to  know  whether  it  is  well.  And 
if  man  could  thus  live  perfectly,  he  too  might  sink 
back  again  into  night  without  a  sigh,  and  leave  his 
seed-time  and  harvest  assured. 

But  to  conscious  intelligence  perfection  is  denied. 


PEAT 

|N  the  laps  of  the  great  hills,  resting  on 
granite,  like  sponges  in  a  basin,  lies  the 
peat  of  Dartmoor,  mile  on  mile — a  haunt 
of  beauty  in  Summer,  and  in  wintertime 
the  warmth  of  the  homes  of  the  upland  men.  Seen 
afar,  or  examined  at  hand,  these  deep  bogs  brim  with 
interest,  for  they  harbour  many  good  things  and  are 
a  delight  to  the  eye.  They  bring  ripe  colour  into 
the  waste,  and  their  lines  and  clefts  break  the 
monotone  of  the  endless  desert  with  contrasts  of  form 
and  tint.  Their  dusky  walls,  cut  freshly  from  the 
peat -beds,  reflect  the  light  on  their  shining  faces, 
weather  to  fine  tones  of  yellow  and  grey,  change 
hourly  with  the  rest  of  the  Moor  from  dawn  until 
evening.  They  offer  a  wondrous  medley  of  all  rich 
hues  from  agate  to  ebony ;  they  burn  as  though 
red-hot  in  the  level  ray  of  sunrise ;  they  reflect 
blue  noontides  in  their  pools  ;  Winter  freezes  them  ; 
in  Spring  they  teem  again ;  and  they  nourish  a 
world  of  life  through  the  increased  temperature  of 
Summer.  In  their  chocolate  hearts  and  on  each 
shimmering  pool,  sedgy  marsh,  and  shaking  bog,  half 
a  hundred  different  flowers  shall  be  found ;  for  it  is 
only  in  the  dark  hours  of  Winter  that  their  garlands 

196 


PEAT  197 

vanish  and  the  very  mosses  gleam  through  chill 
coverlets  of  ice.  Lovely  beyond  word  or  pigment  to 
declare  are  these  same  sphagna  in  full  splendour. 
Their  manifold  colours  vary  from  white  through  all 
shades  of  lemon  and  orange  and  purple  on  the  one 
hand,  and  into  pearly  greys  and  golden-greens  on  the 
other.  They  mass  and  spread,  and  make  rich  back- 
ground for  the  flower-jewels  of  the  bog ;  they  hide 
the  fount  of  the  spring,  yet  proclaim  its  presence  from 
far  off;  they  do  not  haunt  the  peat  cuttings  alone, 
but  climb  the  hills,  hang  emeralds  on  their  lofty  fronts, 
gleam  under  the  showers  of  the  mountains,  and  adorn 
the  very  crests  of  them,  rapt  from  man's  sight  and 
hidden  behind  the  grey  mists.  I  think  these  uplifted 
sphagna  are  often  virgin  in  the  lonely  purity  of  the 
hills,  though  one  finds  their  fruits  in  sun-kissed, 
sheltered  bogs  where  heat  dances  in  Summer. 

In  the  peat-tyes  each  atom  of  stagnant  water  flecked 
with  green  is  a  world.  Pluck  a  rush,  and  the  gleam- 
ing drop  that  falls  therefrom  may  embrace  within  it 
all  the  properties  of  a  planet.  Life  flows  abundant 
there ;  the  crystal  bursts  with  life ;  and  the  life  is 
satisfied  with  its  environment,  being  invincibly  igno- 
rant of  the  life  beyond — just  as  we  know  a  little  of 
space  but  nothing  of  our  neighbours  in  it,  or  our 
relations  with  the  greater  creation  and  the  universe. 

From  the  hillsides  and  the  sheep-tracks  on  them, 
and  the  lesser  coney-tracks,  that  shall  be  marked 
by  skilled  eyes  in  dim  reticulations  and  networks 
patted  into  the  grass  by  countless  soft  paws,  one  may 


198  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

go  swiftly  down  to  the  acres  outspread  below,  where 
peat  lies  drying,  where  water  gleams,  and  the  flowers 
of  the  rush  sweep  a  warm  russet  tone  over  the  bogs 
and  lighten  their  prevailing  green.  The  cuttings  lie 
black  and  broken  in  parallel  lines.  Their  masses  are 
irregular ;  and  here  is  chaos  of  old,  cut  peat,  neglected 
and  dropping  to  pieces ;  and  here,  row  on  row,  piled 
one  against  the  other,  stand  the  slabs  of  new  fuel 
freshly  delved  and  waiting  for  the  sun  to  dry  their 
moisture.  A  great  harmony  of  colours  is  blended 
here,  and  the  dark  peat  flashes  out  like  scattered  and 
broken  strings  of  black  pearls  in  a  case  of  green 
and  grey.  Freshly  carved  by  peat-knife  and  peat- 
iron,  the  fuel  ranges  from  black  to  yellow  in  streaks 
and  strata,  and  the  last  cotton-grass  still  waves  its 
tattered  silver  above  it ;  the  dry  old  rubbish  is  crusted 
with  lichen  and  pale  moss  ;  the  whortle  and  heather 
spring  along  each  ridge;  scattered  stones  also  lend 
their  colours  to  the  blended  wealth  ;  and  the  bracken — 
blue  by  contrast  with  other  verdant  things — shines  like 
a  mantle  on  the  surrounding  hills.  In  Spring  marsh- 
violets  here  spread  their  pale  lavender  abundantly, 
and  the  red-rattle  lifted  rosy  flowers  above  its  lace- 
work  of  leaves.  Later  came  the  most  exquisite 
blossom  that  grows  wild  in  England,  and  the  buck- 
bean's  fairy  flowers  ascended  in  little  spires  above 
her  trefoil  foliage.  Seen  with  naked  eye,  these 
feathered  stars  shall  never  be  forgotten,  but  under  a 
lens  their  magic  startles  the  most  indifferent  observer. 
Nature  has  indeed  wrought  herein  a  masterpiece,  and 


PEAT  199 

fashioned  a  wonder  from  the  palest  pink,  glittering 
fabric  that  ever  left  her  hand.  Here  are  homes  of 
sweetness  for  small  living  things,  whose  little  lives 
are  a  day  of  joy  spent  in  wandering  through  the 
mazes  of  each  petal  to  the  golden  heart  of  every 
flower.  After  menyanthes  has  gathered  up  her  love- 
liness and  the  marsh -orchis  has  also  departed,  you 
shall  find  the  orange  and  scarlet  of  asphodel  glimmer- 
ing here  with  the  inconspicuous  filmy  atom  of  the 
butterwort's  pale  flower  that  hangs  like  a  fly  above 
its  flat  star  of  sticky,  grey  leaves ;  the  lesser  skull-cap 
is  near  also,  while  the  ivy-leaved  campanula  and  marsh- 
pimpernel  twine  their  blue  and  pink  bells  together, 
and  the  bog-heather  hangs  out  pearly  clusters.  Above 
her  ruby  foliage,  all  glittering  with  gems  of  moisture 
on  each  red  hair,  the  round-leaved  sun-dew  lifts  a 
stem  and  hangs  thereon  white,  drooping  blossoms  that 
open  stealthily  in  hot  noontides  and  quickly  close 
again ;  while  hard  by  the  water-loving  St.  John's  wort 
shines  out  of  silvery-green  foliage,  and  thistles  lift 
heads  of  purple  to  break  the  flat  planes  of  the  rush. 

Man's  work  lies  in  the  centre  of  this  scene,  and 
he  toils  here,  and  spreads  his  fuel,  and  thinks  of  the 
burning,  when  fire  shall  draw  the  heart  out  of  the 
peat,  while  this  ancient  factory  of  its  creation  amid 
the  tors  is  under  howling  storm  or  deep  in  snow. 
First  the  moor-man  cuts  off  the  skin  of  heath  and 
rush  and  grass  with  his  knife — generally  an  old  scythe 
— and  then  employs  the  iron  to  hew  each  peat-cake  in 
regular  shape  from  the  mass. 


200  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

Here  the  scads  will  dry,  and  then  be  taken  and 
stacked  in  some  lew  spot  under  each  farmyard  wall. 
The  scent  of  the  familiar  blue  smoke  is  very  fragrant 
to  nostrils  that  know  it  well,  and  for  me,  when 
removed  from  the  presence  of  this  great  lonely  place, 
the  lump  of  peat  cast  on  glowing  ashes  in  some  winter 
fire  sends  forth  a  sweeter  savour  than  any  spice  or 
gum.  Because  its  incense  can  awaken  memory,  and 
its  subtle  sharp  odour,  beyond  power  of  description, 
can  conjure  up  the  little  cots  and  sequestered  grey 
homesteads ;  the  open  walls,  where  the  wheat-ear  bobs 
and  perks  ;  the  yellow-bird  and  his  melancholy  cry ; 
the  white  roads  that  stretch  visible  for  miles ;  the 
shadows  of  the  hills,  the  shadows  of  the  clouds ;  and 
rivers  calling  from  the  rush-beds,  and  the  peat-beds, 
and  the  graves  of  the  old  stone-men.  I  see  black  bogs, 
and  the  plover  fluttering  and  mewing  among  them. 
Above  all  is  a  great  sky  full  of  fresh,  wet  wind  from 
the  South-west.  The  clouds  fling  forth  sudden 
curtains  of  grey  rain  that  sweep  along  in  separate 
storms,  and  for  a  space  shut  out  the  wild  horizon. 
Then  a  shaft  of  pale  sunlight  breaks  the  meshes  of  the 
clouds,  passes  over  the  desert  places,  touches  the  hills 
and  valleys,  and  suddenly  illuminates  a  grey  huddle  of 
little  cots,  where  men  live  beside  a  lonely  farm. 

The  red-hot  peat  still  scents  my  chamber,  and  over 
its  scarlet  core  a  purple  aureola  trembles,  as  though 
fire  had  freed  some  little  Dartmoor  peri  long  pent 
within. 


POMORUM   PATRONA 


POMORUM    PATRONA 

[AWNS  and  sunsets  of  red  and  gold  shall 
now  be  seen  where  the  fruits  of  the 
orchards,  having  reached  ripeness,  wait  for 
man  or  the  autumnal  equinox  to  pluck 
them  from  their  parent  boughs.  Everywhere,  through 
the  thinning  foliage,  above  the  trunks,  amid  the 
twisted  knees  and  elbows  of  branch  and  bough,  an 
apple-harvest  flames.  From  orange  to  crimson,  from 
amber  to  sea-green,  the  colour  harmonies  pass,  and 
intermingle  in  streaks  and  splashes  and  mottled  jewels 
of  all  ruddy  and  golden  tints  that  ever  the  sun  painted. 
Pomaceous  scents  steal  over  the  dewy  grasses  ;  dim 
glades  open  along  the  avenues  of  the  tree-trunks,  and 
shine  out  deeply  blue  against  the  brightness  of  fruit  and 
foliage.  Here  and  there  glimmer  little  hills  of  light 
that  twinkle  through  the  orchard  distances,  and  else- 
where ungathered  apples  dot  the  grass  with  topaz  and 
ruby.  Shadow  there  is  none  in  the  cones  and  mounds 
and  scattered  pyramids  of  fruit,  for  each  globe  of 
scarlet,  or  lemon,  or  golden-green  flings  light  on  the 
round  bosom  of  its  neighbour ;  hence,  viewed  afar 
off,  the  whole  mass  of  vivid  colour  and  reflected 
radiance  beams  forth  unfretted  by  any  shade,  and 

20 1 


202  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

glimmers  with  the  morning  and  evening  sky-colours 
of  Summer. 

Among  the  altars  now  ablaze  with  feast-day  splen- 
dours, and  sweet  with  incense  proper  to  the  goddess 
whose  mellow  hour  they  celebrate,  I  know  a  little 
temple  of  Pomona,  a  cloister  of  half  a  hundred  pillars 
— trees  that  atone  for  the  paucity  of  their  ranks  by 
the  vigour  of  their  lusty  age  and  splendour  of  their 
bearing.  Here,  where  the  old-time  place  nestled  and 
spread  a  jewelled  heart  to  the  sun,  I,  a  little  lad,  had 
often  frolicked  with  the  fowls  and  calves  and  other 
young  things.  I  had  strutted  happy  under  networks 
of  naked  branches  in  wintertime ;  beneath  the  trans- 
parent verdure  of  new  foliage  and  the  snow  and 
carmine  of  spring  blossom  ;  among  the  fruit  on  boughs 
and  underfoot  at  the  fall  of  the  year.  Here,  by  feats 
of  infant  arms,  I  climbed  into  the  forks  of  the  trees 
and  plucked  my  first  apple  ;  here  I  wandered  content 
to  dream  in  all  the  gold  and  glory  of  a  child's  autumn  ; 
here  I  watched  the  shaky  new-born  lambs,  found  my 
earliest  bird's  nest,  bore  the  first  primrose  with  some 
ceremony  to  those  who  loved  me,  chased  the  butter- 
flies, harried  a  procession  of  little  pigs,  and  fled  before 
the  gaunt  presence  of  their  mother. 

And  here,  but  yesterday,  I  came  again,  to  find  that 
domain  of  blissful  days,  something  shrunk  as  to  its 
borders,  but  in  all  other  aspects  as  good  and  precious 
as  in  my  childish  eyes.  Mystery  haunted  it  afore- 
time ;  and  mysteries,  deeper  far  than  those  that  young 
minds  spin  of  shadows,  still  inhabited  it.  The  orchard 


POMORUM   PATRONA  203 

held  new  joys,  new  songs,  new  meanings.  The 
cryptic  writing  of  old  gnarled  boughs ;  the  teeming 
branch  and  apple-lighted  grass;  the  scent  and  sun- 
shine ;  and  the  drone  and  glitter  of  winged  insects 
— all  these  circumstances,  so  obvious  to  a  child,  now 
hinted  mystery,  held  for  me  secrets  whose  solu- 
tions are  hid  down  deep  at  the  heartstrings  of  the 
Mother. 

I  stood  and  pictured  myself  again  through  the 
avenues  of  many  Autumns ;  and  the  span  seemed 
short  enough,  capable  of  compression  to  a  mere  link 
in  time.  I  could  understand  the  little  child  still, 
feel  his  heart  beat  faster  at  sight  of  the  boisterous, 
blue-eyed  sheep-dog,  who  stood  as  high  as  his 
shoulder,  share  his  pride  at  withstanding  the  great 
beast's  riotous  greeting,  sympathise  with  the  small 
hand  that  reached  for  high-hung  nut  or  blackberry  in 
vain.  I  remembered  the  little  thing's  awe  in  presence 
of  an  ancient  gaffer — the  Ladon  of  that  orchard  ;  his 
increased  comfort  on  such  days  as  other  work  called 
old  Ladon  further  afield  and  left  him,  the  child,  in 
sole  company  of  that  ripening  fruit. 

No  Hesperides  brightened  this  autumn  evening 
under  the  apple  trees,  but  a  woman  there  was — an 
ancient  woman,  clad  in  the  colours  of  earth — who 
moved  very  slowly  among  them.  Once  she  had  been 
of  good  stature,  but  now  was  bent  somewhat  under 
pressure  of  much  time ;  yet  her  passage  was  majestic 
if  only  by  its  great  deliberation.  She  handled  a  rake, 
and  with  slow  and  thoughtful  movements  drew  the 


204  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

fallen  fruit  together.  She  gazed  upwards  sometimes, 
and  once  touched  a  bending  bough  of  massy  fruit  as 
though  she  would  willingly  ease  the  pain  of  such 
generous  bearing. 

Presently  I  looked  into  an  ancient  face,  whereon 
years  had  written  more  stories  than  one.  The  woman 
was  very  brown,  her  eyes  grey  as  the  autumn  mist ; 
a  dignity  of  demeanour  marked  her  actions  ;  her  old 
voice  was  sweet ;  and  the  vernacular  chimed  upon 
her  tongue. 

"Sure,"  thought  I,  "here  is  our  Lady  of  the 
Apples — Pomorum  Patrona  herself!  Here,  musing 
alone  at  sunset  time  and,  goddess -like,  forgetting 
not  the  least  of  her  altars,  she  wanders  in  this  seques- 
tered nook.  Here  she  walks  amid  her  scented  garners, 
and  she  knows  that  the  magnificence  of  one  happy 
tree — his  payment  for  full  share  of  sunshine  and 
rain — is  the  magnificence  of  them  all ;  and  each  to 
her  is  all,  and  all  are  no  more  than  her  united  care 
and  joy." 

I  gave  the  grey-eyed  woman  greeting,  and  fell  to 
talk  of  harvest  and  the  bountiful  splendour  of  the 
year.  Her  eyes  were  lifted,  and  a  smile  made  her 
beautiful.  She  picked  red  fruit  and  gave  it  to  me. 

"Tis  sweet  apples  this  tree  do  bear.  Ess — you'm 
right — a  braave  crop,  an'  gude  cider  come  presently. 
Theer's  boughs  clean  brawk  I  could  show  'e.  Do 
sadden  me  to  think  of.  'Tis  like  a  mother  that  dies 
in  childbirth.  But  I  seem  you'm  wanting  apples. 
Us  have  a  gert  store  as  be  prime  for  household 


POMORUM   PATRONA  205 

uses.  Try  the  yellow  sort  hanging  yonder  Us  call 
'em  'lemons' — a  sweet  apple,  I  assure  Je." 

Thus  she  spoke,  and  I  walked  beside  the  guardian 
of  the  trees,  and  liked  her  well  for  the  care  she 
showed  towards  them.  Each  was  very  good  to  her ; 
in  each  she  found  something  to  praise,  some  virtue 
to  waken  her  gratitude. 

"  Wonnerful  fruit  —  wonnerful  fruit  every wheer. 
They  pay  for  tending  wi'  liberal  thanks,  as  your 
eyes  may  tell  'e,  wi'out  word  of  mine.  Eat !  Eat ! 
They'll  not  harm  'e.  They  was  sent  for  man  to  eat, 
I  reckon." 

So  spoke  in  all  sincerity  the  Mother  of  the  Apples. 
Truth  seemed  to  live  in  her  bright  eyes.  Sent  for 
man — warmed  into  glowing  colours  for  man — kissed 
into  sweetness  for  him !  What  a  far-reaching  creed 
hid  there ;  what  a  comforting  creed — could  one  take 
it  and  believe  it  so. 

We  conversed  together,  and  before  I  went  my 
way  there  came  a  gleam  of  real  joy  to  the  eyes  of 
Pomorum  Patrona,  for  I  reminded  her  of  a  past,  now 
vanished  beyond  recall,  of  quaint  rites  and  customs 
long  grown  as  obsolete  as  the  pagan  ceremonials  from 
which  they  dawned.  She  remembered  how,  on  the 
eves  of  old  Christmas  days,  the  lads  and  lasses,  and 
the  aged  men,  with  their  bell-mouthed  blunderbusses, 
were  wont  to  christen  the  orchards,  to  sing  venerable 
songs,  to  burn  powder  under  the  stars,  to  wassail 
each  wrinkled  patriarch  with  cider  born  from  his  own 
branches.  Slowly  and  more  slowly  she  moved,  and, 


206  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

as  I  left  her,  I  knew  that  her  ancient  spirit  was 
roaming  back  through  the  twilight ;  was  waking  in 
the  laughter  of  children  ;  in  songs  from  sturdy  throats 
long  since  asleep ;  perchance  in  memories  of  one 
whose  presence  had  been  her  light,  her  music,  and 
her  crown  in  the  far-away  morning  of  womanhood. 


HARMONY    IN    GOLD 

NDER  a  northern  wind  that  brought  faint 
hazes  tinctured  by  the  October  sun,  I 
stood  upon  high  ground  and  looked  down 
over  a  river  and  wide  plains  that  extended 
round  about.  Here,  spread  amply  forth,  was  the 
harmonious  spectacle  of  the  year's  work  done ;  from 
this  lofty  standpoint,  where,  above  old  Roman  trenches, 
blue  fir  mingled  with  wind-swept  beech  and  oak,  there 
subtended  the  pageant  of  ripe  Autumn  ;  and  the  sun, 
alternately  hidden  and  revealed  at  each  departure  of 
the  clouds,  touched  some  new  secret  into  a  flaming 
word  at  every  flash,  where  his  radiance  fell  in  golden 
lakes  upon  water  and  woodland,  outspread  meadow 
and  fallow,  valley  and  heath. 

To  my  feet  the  dead  heather  rippled  all  russet ; 
but  a  glory  of  pale  gold  and  red-gold  fretted  the  dead 
ling,  and  leapt  to  welcome  each  sun-gleam,  where  the 
brake-fern  shone  for  miles.  The  lesser  gorse  also 
blossomed  with  pure,  deep  yellow  flowers  above  its 
ripening  pods  ;  while  the  dodder's  scarlet  thread 
wound  into  the  vesture  of  the  waste,  and  briars 
lightened  it  with  ruby  and  crimson. 

207 


208  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

Over  the  remote  estuary  of  Exe  the  sun  shot  long 
rays  out  of  the  mists ;  while  to  the  North  extended 
forests,  and  appeared  a  church  above  white  cots  all 
set  in  woods.  Then  fertile  leagues  spread  with  many 
undulations,  until  afar  off,  twin  towers  arose  and  faint 
smoke  hung  above  the  Faithful  City.  Along  the 
river  there  extended  a  great  and  peaceful  park,  and 
wooded  hills  in  many  folds  above  it  lifted  the  eye 
to  Dartmoor,  whose  ancient  loneliness  arose  out  of 
the  West  with  peaks  and  pinnacles  and  one  huge 
dome,  where  Cosdon  Beacon  hove  up  its  girth  and 
guarded  the  central  Moor.  At  the  footstools  of  the 
hills  great  forests  loomed  darkling  through  the  haze, 
and  above  them,  the  faint  diaphanous  breath  of  the 
wind  spun  magic  webs  of  light,  with  an  inner  glow  that 
enshrined  the  day's  splendour.  To  the  West,  golden 
mists  shone  above  the  setting-place  of  the  sun  and 
already  fashioned  the  glories  of  his  pall ;  such  rest  and 
peace  as  only  Autumn  knows  brooded  over  the  world  ; 
and  in  the  silence  one  could  almost  hear  the  downward 
flutter  of  each  leaf,  the  fall  of  seed  and  gleaming 
berry,  as  they  descended  to  the  earth.  Orchards  and 
beechwoods,  oakwoods,  sere  stubbles,  and  acres  of 
ripe  roots  lay  there  in  the  glory  of  accomplishment. 
The  harvest  was  complete,  to  the  cup  of  the  little 
campion  brimming  with  grain  beneath  my  eye ;  all 
had  nobly  ended,  and  the  blessing  of  rest  was  well 
won. 

To  the  East,  red  cattle  dotted  a  great,  gentle  heath 
that  unrolled  in  the  glory  of  the  hour ;  it  spread  in 


HARMONY   IN   GOLD  209 

undulations  crowned  with  firs,  that  sprang  like  little 
sheafs  here  and  there  upon  the  ridges.  The  trees 
stood  thus  in  clumps,  and  supported  each  the  other 
against  those  winds  that  roam  hither  out  of  the 
four  quarters.  Upon  every  platform  or  eminence 
they  appeared,  now  very  blue  against  the  warm  heath, 
now  dark  and  clear-cut  upon  the  sky,  as  in  the 
backgrounds  of  mediaeval  pictures ;  and  beyond,  seen 
dimly  through  dips  of  the  land,  valleys  lay  mistily 
green  and  red  and  pale,  until  great  forests  succeeded 
them,  and  in  their  turn  faded  and  mingled  with  the 
air.  Southward,  above  the  seashore,  arose  lofty  hills, 
whose  farther  sides  were  precipices  flanked  by  blue 
water ;  and,  nearer,  beneath  a  knoll  of  copper  foliage 
and  dark  pine,,  there  hid  one  spot  that  gladdened  the 
heart  of  him  who  read  man  into  this  scene. 

At  Hayes  Barton  a  great  spirit  first  saw  the  light, 
and  Walter  Ralegh  opened  his  new-born  eyes  on 
Devon.  Prime  hero  of  an  age  of  heroes,  the  quint- 
essence of  that  glorious,  unrestful  time  was  he ;  and 
the  work  that  he  did,  with  its  harvest  of  knightly 
deeds  and  philosophic  thoughts,  and  its  ill  portion 
of  cruel  death  at  a  coward  king's  hand — these  are 
all  part  of  the  whole.  Into  the  texture  of  Nature's 
triumph  are  also  woven  man's  enduring  work  and 
worthiness ;  and  a  sunset  glow  of  gratitude  may  linger 
over  each  right  human  harvest,  even  as  the  October 
sun  gilds  these  huge  planes  and  gratefully  warms 
their  perfections  of  achievement.  The  hedgerow  and 
the  fallow,  the  orchard  and  the  grey  tower  set  in 


210  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

yellow  frame  of  pollarded  elms,  the  distant  city  and 
the  smoke  above  ocean — all  speak  of  man.  In  these 
vast  harmonies  he  is  everywhere  apparent.  He  has 
tamed  the  river,  traversed  the  sea,  dressed  the  ruddy 
earth  to  his  liking  with  rich  habiliments.  It  is  only 
here,  uplifted  above  the  work  of  his  hands,  that  you 
stand  apart  from  all  that  he  has  done — stand  upon 
this  untamed  and  immemorial  heath,  and  surprise 
Time  from  slumber. 

The  banks  of  venerable  Roman  trenches  mark 
human  activity  and  lead  backward  through  unnum- 
bered autumn  seasons  to  the  days  when  the  grey 
wolf  hunted  here ;  when  Hayes  was  not  and  Ralegh 
was  not ;  and  when  these  mansions,  that  rise  like 
grey  pearls  over  the  remote  woods,  still  lay  hidden 
within  unquarried  stone. 

I  cannot  escape  from  the  immediate  intrusion  of 
this  waste  upon  thought,  for  now  it  glows  like  the 
heart  of  furnace  fires  under  such  colours  as  only  sun- 
sets paint  with.  The  sun  pierces  here  and  there  with 
arrows  and  daggers  through  the  grey  ;  he  sinks  to  the 
West,  and  every  moment  an  added  warmth  mellows 
the  light  of  him.  Each  distant  bank  of  red  brake- 
fern,  each  triple  leaf  of  the  bramble,  each  cluster  of 
scarlet  haws  and  aglets  answers  colour  for  colour, 
touch  for  touch.  It  is  not  death  I  see  spread  here, 
but  the  culmination  of  life ;  these  golds  and  scarlets 
and  imperial  purples  become  the  crown  of  a  con- 
queror ;  they  are  the  reward  bestowed  upon  every 
humble  leaflet  for  its  long  summer  of  faithful  service. 


HARMONY   IN   GOLD  211 

Because  the  leaves  have  gleaned  from  the  rain  and 
the  mist,  from  the  dew  and  the  wind,  from  the  moon- 
beams and  the  warm  sun -shaft ;  they  have  hoarded 
treasures  for  trunk  and  branch  ;  they  have  lived  beau- 
tifully the  life  of  leaves,  and  transmitted  of  their 
fulness  to  the  roots  that  gave  them  being  and  the 
boughs  that  bore  them. 

To-day,  indeed,  the  world  seemed  itself  the  image 
of  one  infinitely  vast  tree,  whose  summit  merged  with 
the  sky  and  approached  the  sun,  whose  roots  struck 
invisible  through  the  ambient  universe  and  brought 
something  from  the  last  corners  of  creation.  For 
there  were  no  horizons  anywhere  ;  on  every  hand 
earth  merged  into  the  regions  of  the  sky  ;  on  every 
hand  secrets,  of  space  and  treasures  from  infinity 
mingled  with  this  great  scene,  wrapped  it  in  air  made 
visible,  glorified  my  little  planet  into  no  mean  gem 
on  the  heart  of  the  universe. 

The  golden  link  of  all  matter  was  visible  to  me 
then,  and  I  forgot  my  insignificance  and  bulked  large 
upon  my  own  sight  as  a  part  appreciable  of  this 
splendour.  The  air  that  I  breathed,  and  the  air  that 
the  blue  pigeon  set  pulsing  with  his  swift  wing,  was 
the  same  that  hung  curtains  of  unutterable  glory 
round  the  throne  of  the  sun,  that  painted  the  sky 
and  the  earth  with  rainbows,  and  sustained  life  in 
the  least  created  thing.  The  water  that  enabled  me 
to  exist  was  the  same  that  piled  itself  at  the  sun's 
touch  into  precipices  and  promontories  and  palaces  of 
cloud ;  that  came  and  went  from  the  sky  to  the  sea, 


2i2  MY  DEVON   YEAR 

from  the  river  and  steaming  valley  back  to  the  sky 
again.  The  day  seemed  one  of  vast  elemental  throb 
and  movement.  Everything  lived  ;  everything  was 
great ;  everything  was  justified.  On  such  a  day  a 
creator  resting  from  his  labours  might  have  seen  his 
work  that  it  was  good.  The  scent  of  the  pine  and  the 
murmur  of  dry  leaves  in  the  wind  came  as  incense 
and  music  proper  to  the  earth's  festival ;  and  the 
cloth  of  gold,  far  flung  from  hill  and  valley,  was 
seemly  raiment  for  that  rite  of  universal  thanksgiving. 
The  world  melted  away  from  around  me,  from  beneath 
me ;  and  dreaming  there,  my  restless  soul  listened, 
as  it  seemed,  to  one  note  that  echoed  upon  a  harp 
wrought  of  precious  things — a  harp  in  the  hand  of 
some  singer  unseen. 

It  may  have  been  the  pigeon  in  the  pine,  the  bay  of 
a  distant  hound,  or  the  tolling  of  a  bell ;  some  such 
melodious  mundane  utterance  it  surely  was ;  yet, 
transmuted,  it  fell  upon  my  ear  as  an  expression  above 
the  common  music  of  earth,  as  a  song  of  deeper 
meaning  than  ever  reached  my  heart  before.  It  was 
the  voice  of  the  joy  of  Nature — a  lyric  rapture — 
heard  for  an  instant,  then  heard  no  more. 

The  earth  and  the  face  of  the  river  bade  me 
farewell ;  the  mazes  of  the  sky  darkened,  all  bound- 
aries vanished,  and  this  golden  harmony,  by  grada- 
tions slow-sinking  and  solemn,  surrendered  itself  to 
night. 


HARMONY    IN    SILVER 

JROM  this  procession  of  autumnal  days, 
wrought  upon  the  temple  of  time  in  a 
frieze  of  manifold  colours,  and  bearing 
designs  now  simple,  now  splendid,  now 
ornate  and  elaborate,  now  austere  and  economic,  yet 
never  parsimonious,  there  gleam  out  for  me  certain 
silver  noontides,  amid  other  October  mornings  wholly 
gold.  These  last,  indeed,  carry  the  sunset  of  the 
year's  glory  to  its  culmination  of  pure  primary  colour, 
to  the  unnumbered  tints  of  the  dying  hour  of  the 
leaves — fair  things  that  have  felt  the  fingers  of  frost 
in  the  starry  hour  before  dawn,  and  now,  under  sun- 
light, shine,  fretted  with  gossamers,  be -diamonded 
with  dew,  in  the  sharp,  misty  breath  of  the  morning. 
Nature's  sunlit  reds  and  scarlets,  her  mysteries  of 
sea-blue  shadows  under  the  yellow  elms,  of  spacious, 
far-flung  hazes,  dislimning  in  the  low  beams  of  the 
sun — these  phenomena,  woven  of  crystal  air  and 
cloudless  skies,  belong  to  the  golden  hour ;  but, 
amid  them,  as  though  weary  of  such  opulence,  my 
western  world  once  awakened  and  robed  herself  in 
grey.  A  homespun  garment  of  cloud  she  donned, 
and  the  ritual  of  Autumn  ceased  awhile,  for  there 

213 


2i4  MY  DEVON   YEAR 

was  no  sun  to  light  its  million  lamps  of  blossom  and 
berry  and  jewelled  leaf.  Instead,  the  sombre  tones  of 
the  hour  found  a  kindred  spirit,  ambiently  brooding 
over  all,  and  out  from  the  subdued  light  of  that  day  a 
new  world  emerged — a  humble  world,  a  world  re- 
signed, a  world  that  passed  peacefully  and  not  un- 
willingly away  to  death.  Its  highest  adornment  was 
the  ruffled  silver  of  distant  waters ;  its  crown  of  light, 
a  wan  illumination  from  above,  where  fans  of  radiance 
spread  forth  through  wind -rifts,  roamed  with  revo- 
lutions over  hills  and  valleys,  then  vanished  into 
gloom. 

Every  earth -picture  thus  depends  upon  the  sky- 
picture  spread  over  it,  and  when  the  sun  is  absent, 
the  spacious  diffusion  of  light  effected  by  cloud  and 
humid  air  will  oftentimes  beget  luminous  most  beau- 
tiful conditions,  will  magnify  unconsidered  incident  of 
landscape,  and  reveal  chastened  col  our -harmonies 
that  are  lost  in  the  more  obvious  magnificence  of 
direct  sunlight.  And  upon  this,  my  silver  day,  the 
children  of  sunshine  slept. 

From  a  standpoint  on  high  lands,  there  spread 
beneath  me  a  world,  there  rose  above  me  a  sky, 
wrought  in  all  shades  of  grey,  ranging  from  hue  of 
pure  pearl  to  that  of  sombre  lead.  A  foreground 
of  forest  fell  abruptly  away  ;  plains  subtended  the 
foot-hills  of  these  woods,  and  amidst  them  wound 
a  river,  and  rose  a  little  township  that  climbed 
here  and  there  to  its  own  proper  elevations  in  the 
vale.  Beyond,  the  land  towered  gradually  to  a 


HARMONY   IN   SILVER  215 

northern  horizon,  where  the  southern  ramparts  of 
Dartmoor,  grey  as  rain,  heaved  hugely  up  against 
the  sky-line. 

Plane  upon  plane  the  scene  extended,  and  the 
operations  of  man  lent  no  little  beauty,  where  upon 
the  fertile  lands,  that  had  carried  garnered  harvests 
and  were  now  naked,  there  rose  from  faint  con- 
stellations of  flame  many  smoke -wreaths,  spreading 
on  the  wind  in  trails  easterly.  They  were  almost 
white  at  the  point  of  birth,  where,  from  root  and 
weed,  gathered  off  the  broken  stubbles,  they  rose 
above  a  hundred  dotted  fires,  and  sinuously  wound 
away ;  then  fading  to  diaphanous  hazes,  they  threw 
up  cot  and  hedgerow,  tall  elm  and  hamlet,  against 
their  veils  of  light.  Here,  in  some  wide  gap  or 
gorge,  the  western  wind  caught  these  smoky  ribbons, 
and  fretted  them  steadily  and  swiftly  away ;  else- 
where, sheltered  by  hanging  woods  or  the  configura- 
tion of  the  land,  they  trailed  peacefully,  in  wisps  and 
wreaths  of  ashy  illumination,  or  hung  over  the  hamlets 
in  persistent  clouds,  whose  iron-blue  banners  told  of 
burning  wood  on  many  a  hearth. 

I  think  this  spectacle  of  mist-laden  air,  high  hills, 
and  widespread  plains  lacked  no  shade  of  all  those 
that  pertain  to  the  mingling  of  black  with  white. 
From  the  purity  of  sky-rifts,  where  a  rain  of  colour- 
less light  winnowed  the  clouds,  yet  never  exceeded 
the  brilliance  of  frosted  silver,  to  the  darkest  shadows 
of  adjacent  pines,  the  solemn  scheme  obtained.  It 
was  manifest  alike  in  the  curtain  of  the  Moor, 


216  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

drawn  northwards  high  above  all  that  I  beheld  ;  on 
the  silver-birch  before  me ;  in  the  bramble,  whose 
foliage,  moved  at  a  faint  breath,  reflected  back  the 
light  of  the  sky  unchanged  from  grey  under-leaves ; 
in  the  flying  parachutes  of  the  composite  flowers  ;  in 
the  seeding  clematis,  and  in  the  network  of  many 
grey  boughs  already  appearing  through  foliage  grown 
thin.  Unconsidered  links  shone  out ;  unknown  beau- 
ties among  the  relations  of  varied  leaves  were  made 
manifest ;  and  unguessed  congruities  in  the  passing 
of  those  fair  things,  whose  funerals  know  no  pomp, 
whose  palls  are  silver  and  sere,  whose  death-colours 
speak  of  chill  etiolation,  unkissed,  unwarmed  by  the 
great  sun.  A  grey  day  reveals  the  inner  texture  of 
the  Mother's  robe,  and  touches  these  soft  fabrics 
that  cling  about  the  heart  of  her,  and  hide  her  very 
bosom. 


THE   CROWN   ON   THE   HILL 


PON  an  evening  in  November  the  panting 
of  the  wind  was  at  last  lulled,  and  he  rested 
from  his  tremendous  labours  succeeding 
the  equinox.  All  things  under  the  sky 
were  very  still ;  earth  mused  in  silence  ;  woods,  hills, 
valleys  seemed  possessed  with  a  sort  of  wonder  at  the 
great  peace  now  nestling  within  them  ;  and  westering 
light  deepened  to  red-gold  as  the  sun  sank  upon  the 
horizon.  It  was  a  moment  in  which  one  could  see 
the  air  taking  visible  shape  ;  it  was  an  hour  when  one 
might  note  the  atmosphere  hanging  opaline  against 
background  of  hills  and  valleys,  softening  with  its 
radiance  the  avenues  of  the  firs.  A  veil  of  azure 
blue  stole  above  the  russet  fern  between  me  and  the 
sunset.  It  wound  upward,  like  incense  smoke, 
amid  the  yellow  spires  of  the  larches  and  the  silver 
stems  of  the  birch.  Neither  fog  nor  mist  was  it  that 
I  saw,  but  the  sweet,  keen  breath  of  November,  the 
very  expiration  of  Nature,  here  sleeping  her  first 
winter  sleep  under  groves  of  silence.  Sunlight  rippled 
across  a  great  woodland  aisle,  whose  pillars  were  the 
fir  trees  ;  shadows  mottled  stem,  branch,  and  sad- 

217 


218  MY  DEVON   YEAR 

coloured  carpet  of  sere  needles  with  delicate  shades, 
that  in  their  turn  were  brightened  by  direct  reflection 
from  boughs  and  trunks  aglow  in  the  orange  light. 
Splashes  of  pale  sky  eastward  broke  through  the 
crowns  of  the  wood  ;  traceries  of  moss  outlined  the 
twisted  roots  at  each  tree-foot ;  a  bough  of  beech, 
with  dead  leaves  flaming,  sometimes  extended  across 
my  path;  and  all  things  were  soaked  in  the 
diaphanous  air. 

Silence  is  a  condition  most  uncommon  amid  great 
pines  or  firs,  yet  at  this  moment  these  forests,  built 
of  both,  breathed  no  sound,  and  the  scent  of  such 
places,  always  borne  on  the  sigh  of  the  least  wind, 
or  won  from  the  kiss  of  hot  sunshine,  to-day  was 
absent.  Only  a  subdued  twitter  of  tiny  tits,  travel- 
ling in  company  along  their  aerial  highways  in  the 
tree-tops,  broke  the  great  silence.  The  woods  sloped 
to  the  North,  and  under  their  edges  infinite  peace 
and  extreme  cold  had  already  settled.  There  the 
daggers  of  the  frost  were  already  stabbing  in  the 
damp  mosses  and  dead  leaves  ;  while  on  the  hill  the 
heath  shone  warm  contrasted  against  the  chill  light  of 
the  silvery-blue  firs.  In  the  deciduous  underwoods 
many  leaves  still  hung ;  but  autumn  colours  suffer 
an  eclipse  displayed  within  such  sombre  glades,  for 
the  evergreens  intercept  sunshine,  and  the  dying 
foliage  beneath  is  something  robbed  of  its  last 
beauties.  There  is  in  these  dusky  places  a  cadaver- 
ous rather  than  a  splendid  death,  a  bleaching  and  a 


THE   CROWN   ON   THE   HILL       219 

blanching  ;  as  where  I  now  see  one  silver -birch,  of 
most  pallid  foliage,  that  shines  under  the  dark  cone- 
bearers,  like  a  lamp  of  wan  flame.  Her  sisters  of 
the  open  down  have  long  since  lost  their  glory,  but 
it  was  golden  treasure  that  the  West  wind  shook  from 
them ;  not  such  bloodless  leaves  as  droop  belated  here 
and  wait  for  frost  to  fell  them. 

Frost  was  at  hand ;  the  hushed,  wakeful  silence 
spoke  of  it,  and  the  black  buds  of  the  ash,  and  the 
traceries  of  the  briars,  and  the  velvet  flower-buds  of 
the  gorse,  where,  tucked  like  tiny  agate  beads  along 
her  thorny  branches,  they  waited  to  scent  easterly 
breezes  and  the  grey  days  of  coming  March.  A 
few,  indeed,  had  paled  to  the  bursting,  and  some 
twinkled  in  full  flower,  for  the  greater  furze  never 
sleeps. 

As  I  emerged  from  the  woods,  a  red  haze  spread 
round  the  setting  sun,  touched  the  naked  boughs  of 
oaks,  and  warmed  the  last  tattered,  lemon  foliage  of 
elms  that  were  perched  along  the  ridges  of  an  ex- 
tended scene.  Already  wide  valleys  and  the  courses 
of  rivers  beneath  were  buried  in  the  dun  of  night ; 
the  air  thickened,  and  sudden  clatter  of  pigeons'  wings 
came  as  an  assault  upon  silence. 

Aloft,  crowning  the  very  crest  of  this  great  hill 
with  a  double  circlet,  spread  a  Roman  encamp- 
ment. To-day,  forests  bury  half  these  spacious 
circles,  and  a  high-road  marks  a  diameter  across 
their  midst.  Arrayed  in  perished  grasses  and  fading 


220  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

fern,  its  circumference  stretched  out  dead  in  the 
gloaming ;  stillness  deeper  than  sleep  stagnated  over 
it ;  one  naked  thorn,  humped  into  semblance  of 
uncouth  life,  kept  his  vigil  in  the  midst ;  and  round 
about  extended  two  great  rings,  clothed  with  rack 
and  chaos  of  a  winter  heath,  splashed  with  pale 
tussocks  of  grass,  like  blind  eyes,  swept  with  fallen 
fern,  whose  nerveless  stems  had  bent  and  broken  in 
regiments  under  the  shattering  pressure  of  past 
storms.  Thus  sprawled  out  starkly  under  an  ashy 
light,  that  each  moment  sucked  the  detail  from  it, 
this  old  camp  lay  before  me ;  and  such  was  the 
silence  that  not  one  sob,  whisper,  or  tinkle  inhabited 
the  dead  bells  of  the  heather.  They,  too,  were 
dumb  ;  and  I  mused  as  to  how  many  million  would 
echo  the  wind  no  more ;  I  thought  of  the  hosts 
among  them  destined  to  fall  that  night  in  the  pinch 
of  the  frost. 

Motion  and  sound  were  here  suspended,  for  the 
place  was  as  a  picture  painted  in  colours  of 
mourning  upon  the  past.  Not  one  spark  of  living 
light  shone  from  out  the  monochrome  of  it ;  not  one 
sentinel  challenged  the  ineffable  peace.  Yesterday, 
the  Legions  had  made  these  earthworks  tremble ; 
to-day,  they  who  once  laboured  here  were  dust  again, 
though  the  crown  on  the  hill,  with  greater  things,  still 
endured  to  testify  of  them. 

One  star  suddenly  twinkled — a  very  incarnation  of 
life  and  activity  contrasted  with  this  brooding  deso- 


THE   CROWN   ON   THE   HILL        221 

lation  and  silence.  The  star  twinkled  and  rose  ; 
deep,  undried  dews  sparkled  a  response  to  it ;  and 
ancient  Night,  descending  from  the  East,  drew  all 
things  to  her  dark  bosom — embraced  all,  and  hid 
all  away,  as  a  hen  gathers  her  chickens  under  her 
wings. 


THE    MASTER-BUILDER 

[O  one  whose  habitual  round  of  life  em- 
braces daily  converse  with  natural  things, 
and  who  also  loves  art,  in  that  by  exer- 
cise of  it  he  attempts  to  justify  existence, 
there  are  few  facts  stranger  than  the  attitude  of 
many  critical  persons  toward  the  country.  I  instance 
those  who  find  in  pictures  a  great  part  of  their 
aesthetic  food,  who,  before  the  revelation  of  Turner 
or  Constable,  Walker  or  Clausen,  feel  honest  joy, 
and  are  uplifted  by  such  gleanings  of  genius  from 
Nature.  But  face  these  same  cultured  souls  with  the 
material  out  of  which  the  masters  have  builded  and 
their  attitude  descends  from  enthusiasm  to  indiffer- 
ence. Ask  them  to  rise  before  the  dawn  that  they  may 
see  Turner's  palette  in  the  eastern  sky ;  desire  them 
to  witness  Constable's  rain-clouds  actually  bursting  in 
silver  above  summer  oaks;  invite  them  to  Clausen's 
scorching  stubbles,  or  the  deep  woodland  that  others 
paint ;  and  they  turn  away.  It  is  a  sociological 
mystery  to  me  that  there  exist  people  who  love  a 
day  in  a  picture  gallery  better  than  one  with 
Nature. 

322 


THE  MASTER  BUILDER 


THE   MASTER-BUILDER  223 

The  danger  of  this  attitude  is  obvious  from  the 
mere  standpoint  of  critical  justice  alone.  What  signify 
values,  tonality,  technique,  if  truth  itself  be  lacking  ? 
And  who  shall  dare  to  praise  or  blame  if  he  knows 
not  whether  the  things  set  down  are  true  to  the 
circumstances  they  claim  to  represent  ? 

I  possess  a  drawing  by  an  Associate  of  the  Royal 
Academy.  It  illustrates  a  story  of  the  olden  time, 
and  the  scene  is  Dartmoor  at  mid-winter.  A  fox- 
glove in  full  bloom  occupies  a  prominent  position. 
Some  object  was  required  to  balance  the  composition  ; 
it  was  necessary  that  certain  light  and  shade  should 
be  blended  thus  at  the  point  where  this  hibernal  fox- 
glove flourishes ;  and  people  who  understand  pictures 
admire  the  piece  and  see  no  fault  in  it:  the  naked 
trees  and  the  luxuriant  foxglove  alike  win  their 
admiration.  But  those  who  merely  understand  fox- 
gloves are  surprised  at  such  a  flagrant  and  careless 
error.  For  them  the  achievement  ceases  seriously  to 
exist,  because  a  man  who  thus  errs  in  what  they  know, 
may  err  also  in  what  they  do  not  know. 

This  is  a  trifle,  and  my  prelude  to  a  larger  question. 
Urban  philosophers,  and  such  as  have  no  special 
sympathy  with  natural  things,  appear  as  unfamiliar 
with  the  inner  life  of  the  country  as  many  rural 
painters  are  unskilled  concerning  natural  principles. 
Yet,  despite  their  ignorance  of  the  earth,  they  in- 
veigh against  the  gospel  of  earth  with  utmost  possible 
bitterness.  They  damn  natural  religion,  though  of 
Nature  they  know  nothing  whatever.  Their  con- 


224  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

elusions  are  neither  founded  upon  study  nor  experi- 
ence ;  they  have  not  touched  and  seen  ;  they  have 
not  scorched  for  it  and  sweated  for  it,  drenched  for 
it  and  frozen  for  it.  They  have  looked  at  Nature  out 
of  a  window ;  they  have  arrived  at  their  conclusions 
by  data  gathered  in  railway  trains  while  journeying 
from  one  intellectual  centre  to  another.  They  never 
shared  the  life  of  the  leaves  and  the  boughs  and  the 
birds.  They  never  lived  alone  with  the  earth.  They 
never  felt  Nature  touch  their  hearts  to  patience,  lift 
their  unrest,  purify  the  foul  places  of  their  minds,  call 
them  clear- voiced  to  braver  life  and  more  courageous 
thinking. 

All,  indeed,  cannot  so  feel  this  influence ;  all  are  not 
constituted  that  they  can  endure  it;  the  greater  number 
ask  for  something  more  hopeful,  and  demand  a  promise 
of  a  happier  life  in  a  happier  world  than  this  is.  Let 
such  go  their  way,  but  let  them  not  lift  their  voices 
against  the  earth-cult ;  for  they  neither  know  its  reality 
nor  apprehend  its  meaning.  There  is  a  cry  of  Nature's 
fatalism  and  pessimism  ;  there  is  an  assurance  that  she 
is  illusive,  a  pageant  of  the  senses,  a  dream-picture 
thrown  on  dust  to  vanish  with  the  wind.  Those  who 
believe  this  will  add  that  the  meaning  of  natural  facts 
is  often  hidden  from  us,  and  that  they  shall  be  found 
productive  of  much  injustice  from  the  standpoint  of 
human  conscience.  It  never  occurs  to  these  misty 
thinkers  that  conscience  should  be  distrusted  in  this 
and  other  matters ;  yet  there  is  a  deadly  danger  in 


THE   MASTER-BUILDER  225 

absolute  trust  of  any  faculty  which,  like  conscience, 
has  resulted  from  education. 

To  cry  injustice  is  only  to  say  once  more  that 
Nature  can  be  cruel,  according  to  man's  notion.  But 
a  familiar  axiom  of  those  who  find  in  her  the  first 
principle  has  always  been  that  she  is  alike  outside 
of  all  right  or  wrong.  She  may  no  more  be  ap- 
plauded for  deliberate  goodness  than  blamed  for 
premeditated  evil.  Nevertheless,  the  words  ''cruel" 
and  "kind"  are  still  hurled  against  her,  for  even 
England's  first  living  thinker,  Herbert  Spencer, 
declares  that  Nature  is  a  little  cruel  to  be  greatly 
kind. 

She,  indeed,  holds  the  secret  of  all  emotions,  and 
can  bring  each  one  to  life  ;  yet,  herself,  she  remains 
emotionless,  and  above  all  creature-attributes  of  feel- 
ing or  of  sense.  Her  wakening  is  love's  awakening  ; 
her  high  noon  reflects  mankind's  aspiration  ;  her 
Autumn  paints  the  pictures  of  thrift,  generosity,  and 
motherhood  ;  and  from  her  winter  hours  we  gather 
images,  noble  and  pathetic,  of  human  age.  Ten  thou- 
sand times  a  day  we  go  to  her  for  similitudes  and 
figures  that  shall  give  life  to  speech  ;  in  her  we  exist 
mentally  as  well  as  physically  ;  from  her  all  art  draws 
its  life-blood,  and  often  only  pays  her  with  cheap 
sneers  ;  through  her  we  first  learned  to  conceive  the 
possibility  of  things  greater  than  ourselves.  But 
man  turns  his  back  upon  his  Mother,  because  she 
will  whisper  no  fallacious  word  to  him  concerning 
immortality.  Her  stern  silence  makes  many  hearts 
Q 


226  MY   DEVON   YEAR 

grow  cold  ;  many  humane  spirits  become  indifferent ; 
but  Time,  the  Master- Builder,  has  in  his  keeping 
human  intellects  unborn  that  shall  show  greater 
courage  in  this  matter  as  a  result  of  higher  reason. 
We  cannot  see  more  than  dim  finger-posts  pointing 
to  nothing ;  but  the  sons  of  the  morning  may  read 
them  when  we  are  gone,  and  face  the  darkness  like 
men,  not  flee  from  it  like  cowards. 

Let  us  be  charitable  to  ideas  :  there  is  little  danger 
in  that  ;  for  each  carries  its  own  seed,  and  if  the  seed 
be  sterile,  no  human  necessity  arises  to  destroy  it  ; 
and  if  the  seed  be  fertile,  there  is  no  human  power 
that  can  do  so.  For  a  time  the  world  will  often 
prefer  a  prosperous  error  to  an  afflicted  truth  ;  but 
only  for  a  time.  The  centuries  witness  every  human 
fallacy  return  to  its  dust,  while  that  which  is  true 
remains  immortal.  Of  truth,  indeed,  may  the  word 
be  spoken  ;  but  of  nothing  else. 

Concerning  Nature  I  say  that  her  cult  is  reasonable 
because  it  fulfils  the  conditions  of  a  working  creed. 
Much  is  hidden,  but  much  is  lucid  and  practical ; 
the  element  of  mystery  does  not  lack ;  yet  the 
rudiments  are  easily  grasped.  A  lively  sense  of  the 
necessity  for  obedience  is  the  first  lesson  to  be  learned. 
Break  her  laws,  and  she  will  break  you.  That  is  clear 
even  to  the  fool.  Nature  lives  and  goes  forward,  and 
is  always  in  the  van  of  human  intellect.  Outworn 
creeds  fall  like  the  flower  whose  fruit,  set  from 
better  pollen  than  her  own,  is  destined  to  uplift  the 
next  generation  of  blossoms  into  a  nobler  beauty  than 


THE   MASTER-BUILDER  227 

the  last.  The  impulse  in  Nature  is  onward,  and  her 
light  shines  ahead.  The  more  we  learn,  the  more  she 
has  to  teach.  Nothing  in  her  is  an  end  to  itself; 
everything  is  a  beginning  for  something  else.  Thus, 
while  you  shudder  to-day  at  the  fancied  impiety  which 
claims  kinship  with  a  lesser  creature  of  yesterday,  so 
to-morrow  may  a  greater  being  shudder  at  the  impiety 
which  claims  kinship  with  you.  Nevertheless,  I  know 
how  that  greater  thing  will  admit  your  kinship  with 
pride,  for  it  is  but  a  mean  order  of  life  that  goes  in 
shame  of  its  origin.  Why  should  we  hold  that  man 
alone  of  all  created  beings  is  an  end  to  himself  and 
not  a  beginning  to  others  ?  From  us  a  greater  than 
we  are  shall  arise.  Give  Nature  time  ;  that  is  all  she 
asks.  Consider  how  long  it  took  to  fashion  us,  and 
grudge  none  of  the  unnumbered  ages  that  it  may 
require  to  improve  upon  us.  Who  will  dare  estimate 
the  period  asked  to  set  the  round  world  in  its  matrix 
of  space  and  make  sure  foot-hold,  fin-hold,  wing-hold, 
for  the  earth-born  hosts  ?  Who  can  affirm  the  awful 
duration  of  ages  that  elapsed  before  we  were  called  to 
play  our  part  ?  And  is  Nature  weary  ?  Are  the  laws 
of  evolution  accomplished  ?  Was  mere  conscious 
existence,  as  displayed  in  an  inferior  animal,  their  end 
and  goal  ? 

A  thrush  in  a  green  larch  at  dawn  is  good  :  but 
there  was  a  time  before  thrush  or  larch  ;  there  will 
come  a  day  when  thrush  and  larch  are  not,  and  when 
better  things  burst  into  song  and  into  bud  for  a  greater 
than  man  to  enjoy.  Most  true  is  it  that  the  Master- 


228  MY  DEVON   YEAR 

Builder  is  also  the  Master- Destroyer  ;  but  he  never 
casts  down  an  organism,  a  race,  or  a  creed  until  the 
law  of  progress  is  fulfilled  and  a  better  creature  waits 
for  life  and  for  space  to  grow  in. 

Hear  Lucretius  :  "  None  of  the  things,  therefore, 
which  seem  to  be  lost  is  utterly  lost,  since  Nature 
replenishes  one  thing  out  of  another,  and  does  not 
suffer  anything  to  be  begotten,  before  she  has  been 
recruited  by  the  death  of  some  other." 

That  pessimism  should  spring  from  a  contemplation 
of  this  system  in  Nature  is  only  to  be  explained 
by  the  existence  of  human  vanity  and  religious 
superstition.  The  lords  of  creation  we  have  long 
called  ourselves,  and  it  irks  man  to  discover  that 
in  the  records  of  his  Mother  he  is  set  down  under 
another  name.  He  lacks  that  perfect  trust  in  Time 
which  the  earth-worshipper  acknowledges ;  he  lacks 
that  faith  in  the  destiny  of  his  own  heir  which  Nature 
inspires.  Yet  that  is  the  best  working  faith  of  all,  for 
I  discover  in  it  the  vital  principle  of  every  faith  that 
has  claimed,  or  does,  or  will  claim  consideration  and 
manifest  supremacy.  It  is  the  only  faith  of  the  future. 
Far  from  sorrow,  I  feel  joy  at  this  thought  of  the 
march  forward  ;  I  trust  in  the  unborn,  not  in  the  dead  ; 
and  because  the  future  is  hidden  from  me,  and  I 
know  that  I  may  not  attain  to  it,  what  matter? 
Nature,  at  least,  lifts  me  up  that  I  may  see  with  the 
eyes  of  my  intellect  that  glimmering  dawn. 

She  will  labour  here  ceaselessly  until  the  sun  grows 
cold  ;  and  we  are  as  much  a  part  of  her  immemorial 


THE   MASTER-BUILDER  229 

plan,  as  the  Galaxy  or  those  nebulae  where  new  worlds 
are  already  spinning  on  her  wheel,  like  clay  upon  the 
potter's. 

Remember  that  you  are  a  link  in  an  eternal  chain, 
and  that  your  duty  is  neither  to  mourn  the  prevalent 
pattern  nor  unduly  to  glorify  it.  Rather  keep  your 
personal  link  free  from  rust,  that  it  shall  sustain  its 
proper  strain  in  the  world -order.  Thus  there  may 
steal  into  your  life  peace  and  patience,  and  that 
"  quiet  unity  which  alone  can  compress  any  achieve- 
ment into  the  few  human  years." 

Above  all,  love  the  truth  better  than  yourself.  To 
fail  of  that  is  to  squander  the  grandest  possibility  of 
the  human  heart. 


PLYMOUTH 

WILLIAM    BRENDON    AND    SON 
PRINTERS 


,     C.AUFORNIA  LIBRARY 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


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4  1917 


12 
JUL  18  1928 


OCT 


1930 


30m-l,'15 


109443 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


